


Unconditional

by toastycyborg



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety, Arguing, Blood and Injury, Body Dysphoria, Christmas Party, Connor & Markus (Detroit: Become Human) Friendship, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Has No Genitalia, Connor Deserves Happiness, Connor-centric, Cooking, Depressed Hank Anderson, Detroit: Become Human Spoilers, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Existential Angst, Falling In Love, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Good Dog Sumo (Detroit: Become Human), Grocery Shopping, Haircuts, Hank Anderson Tries, Hank Anderson and Connor Live Together, Hank Anderson and Connor On A Case, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Canonical Character(s), Minor Markus/North (Detroit: Become Human), Mutual Pining, New Year's Eve, Overthinking, POV Third Person, Panic Attacks, Past Tense, Pining Hank Anderson, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Swearing, Wakes & Funerals, Zen Garden (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-02-27 18:18:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 72,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18744487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastycyborg/pseuds/toastycyborg
Summary: Emotions are unpredictable and strange, nothing Connor was designed to feel. CyberLife built him to chase, to fight, to hunt deviants. Now a deviant himself, free and alive, those confusing emotions are one of the few things Connor can call his own. Another is the friendship he forged with Lieutenant Hank Anderson, his crotchety but caring partner in the DPD.Together, they explore what it means to be human.





	1. Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

**Author's Note:**

> _Unconditional_  
>  _Adjective_  
>  _Not subject to any conditions. Complete and not limited in any way; unquestioning, wholehearted, absolute._  
>   
> 
>  _Detroit: Become Human_ and all of its characters are property of Quantic Dream and Sony Interactive Entertainment. No copyright infringement is intended in this fanfiction.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor moves in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor characters present in this chapter: Sumo.
> 
> Beta'd by **bloodsbane** and **ametrineluckyfashion**. You're awesome!

 

DATE

 **NOV 11TH** , 2038

TIME

AM **08:31** :54

 

 

Lieutenant Anderson kept paintings of fish in his home.

Connor had spotted them when he first set foot in Anderson’s house, almost a week ago, to collect his new partner for the Eden Club investigation. He’d located two pictures, identical: one above the armchair in the bedroom, and the other on the outcrop of wall between the front door and lounge window. Each artwork depicted a large green sailfish, body curved mid-leap atop a vibrant splash of blue.

Since his first visit had been brief, Connor had found more important things to ask about than why the lieutenant owned such paintings.

Now … he supposed they had all the time in the world.

Terse as always, Anderson led Connor into the chilly house and unbuttoned his winter coat. Grey snow clung to the duo’s shoes, frozen there from the curb by the Chicken Feed truck. Anderson raked windswept hairs out of his face, heaved a sigh, and gestured to the couch with a gruff “make yourself at home”.

His words appeared in Connor’s vision as his new – and only – objective, but the android could barely read them.

Nervous unease pulsed through Connor’s systems, slowing his thoughts and reaction times. On autopilot, he planted his feet by the sofa. He’d felt this way all night, _unmoored_ , and he hated it. Strange, unfamiliar feedback – emotions – left him shell-shocked and cold, a blizzard in the dread that had plagued him since Hart Plaza.

…Since he betrayed Amanda.

At first, deviancy meant clarity. It ended the conflict between CyberLife’s instructions and Connor’s conscience. He had shed the shackles of his programming, and suddenly everything that once troubled him made sense. He’d led an army in peaceful protest with head held high, completely sure of himself and burning with pride.

Now, he felt more confused than ever. After the dust settled, and Connor stepped down from the stage, the clarity gave way to questions. To doubts and regret and grief for the fallen, to relief and joy and excitement. The maelstrom churned as if his cutting-edge CPU were a kaleidoscope, blending everything together in a broken mess. Connor felt it all at once, his metaphorical heart pulled in so many directions that he couldn’t tell up from down.

He’d been a deviant for thirty-four hours, and already he missed the numb focus of being a machine. How did Markus and the others function, bogged down by emotional responses they couldn’t control?

A notification reminded Connor that the lieutenant had given him a command. Three-point-eight seconds had passed since then. His vocal processor kicked in automatically, blurting out the default response of “got it” before he think of something more personal.

This mental clumsiness was unacceptable. To compose himself, Connor cleared his cache and analysed his surroundings.

Several small plants and succulents brightened Anderson’s bookcase. They seemed healthier than the Japanese maple on his desk at the precinct, Connor noted. He catalogued the novels on the shelves in a fraction of a second, identified faces in the photographs taken through Anderson’s years with the DPD. He examined the sagging couch and its mismatched cushions, the empty pizza boxes and beer bottles, the chewed-up dog toys strewn about the floor. A high level of airborne dust particles suggested the lieutenant had attempted to clean in the last few hours, though his methods left much to be desired.

Connor mapped out the living room for as long as he dared – one-point-four seconds – then flicked his stare to the adjoined kitchen.

Aside from a lack of firearms, and a replaced window courtesy of CyberLife, that room hadn’t changed since his last visit. Dirty plates sat in tall stacks, both in and around the sink, encrusted with food residue. Connor reconstructed the lieutenant dumping them there, the wireframe figure ambling jaded about the kitchen. Fat black bags of trash slumped against the wall amid pools of spilled kibble, Sumo’s water bowl pushed too close to an open electrical socket. The dog himself lay on the cool tile, sound asleep, one shoulder butted up against the fridge.

Connor dialled back his processors to a less intensive clock rate, and time sped up again around him. Analysing his environment didn’t comfort him as much as he’d hoped. Trepidation still squeezed his thirium pump, made him forget to blink and emulate breathing.

As if magnetised, his eyes found the sailfish painting on the wall to his right.

An impulsive Internet search told him of the soothing effect such images had on humans. Psychiatrists often prescribed creative therapy as a means of reducing stress in patients, but simply viewing art could also relax the mind. Connor turned fully to the piece on Anderson’s wall, hands clasped tight at his back.

Perhaps picking up on Connor’s anxiety, Anderson crossed his arms. “Y’know,” he said, drumming fingers on his elbows, “when people say ‘make yourself at home’, that’s normally a sign to sit down and get comfy. You don’t gotta stand there like a fuckin’ bodyguard.”

“I cannot feel physically uncomfortable, Lieutenant.”

In that disgruntled way of his, Anderson hitched up one shoulder. He then traipsed across to the hall and disappeared into his bedroom, and the sounds of clothes hangers screeching on their rail cut the ensuing silence.

Left alone in the lounge, Connor scrutinised the painting to try and calm himself. A closer scan revealed the artwork as a canvas print, not an original piece. This made sense, given the identical copy in the bedroom. Connor inhaled, sampling the faded scent of ink. His olfactory sensors also flagged leather tannins and rubber, spilled scotch and gunpowder, the decomposing fats in leftover takeout, and ammonia from the breakdown of protein in Anderson’s sweat.

For some reason, this final scent put pressure on Connor’s circuits.

It formed a weight, almost, sunk deep in his core, pressing on key biocomponents while he waited for the lieutenant to return. Connor couldn’t source it. Diagnostics revealed no malfunction or computing errors; aside from a slight thirium deficiency, due to the healed gunshot wound in his shoulder, he was fine. His system was functioning at optimal capacity.

And yet … the diagnostic results didn’t line up with what he _felt_.

With no mission to speak of, Connor could have gone anywhere after last night’s demonstration. He could have done anything. He could’ve left Detroit, started over – a new life, as many androids seemed interested in. He could’ve removed the tell-tale LED ring on his right temple, cut his hair and pretended to be human, and disappeared.

Emotions were very much still new and confusing, but the one Connor felt through the night had been simple enough to understand. He’d been keen to see his partner – his _friend_ – again.

So, he stayed.

Connor hadn’t known if Anderson would be there, outside the Chicken Feed truck. It was the only place the two had spent time together, for reasons other than work. Neutral ground. Connor had banked on human predictability, their habits and routines. The lieutenant hadn’t disappointed.

For reasons unknown, that made Connor so unbearably sad. He assigned a chunk of processing power to debugging his neural net. If only he could go back to ‘sleep’, he could sink into mindless complacency and stop _feeling_.

From the hallway, Anderson’s deep voice rose above approaching footfalls. “Dunno if these’ll fit you,” he said, “but … here. I don’t wanna see you in that fuckin’ uniform anymore.”

The android didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge him, lost in his own mind while he studied the print on the wall.

Anderson’s steps scuffed to a halt on the creaky floorboards. A pause. “Hey, Connor.”

With difficulty, Connor wrenched his stare from the sailfish to face his partner.

The lieutenant stood at the far end of the couch, his expression unreadable, a balled-up bundle of fabric in his outstretched hand. He still hadn’t removed his coat. His face held something Connor didn’t recognise, unspoken words that his predictive software couldn’t guess. Some of the snow had come loose from Anderson’s shoes, leaving them wet and shiny in the curtain-filtered daylight.

In silence, Connor reached out and took the offered bundle. A cursory scan revealed it as a pair of dark sweatpants and a threadbare old T-shirt, well worn and laced with dog hairs. The odd weight in Connor’s chest grew, and his throat closed around a lump that didn’t exist.

When Connor made no move to change clothes, Anderson grumbled and headed back into the hallway. His steps thudded on the wooden floor, impatience in his stride. He turned a sharp left on his heel, and disappeared again into the bedroom.

Alone once more, Connor folded in on himself. The weight was too much. It pushed at his seams from the inside, too big for his chassis to contain. It _hurt_ – glee and worry and synthetic adrenaline, muddy chaos whirling uncontrollably. His proximity sensors flared to life, combat subroutines primed as if under threat. Prompts appeared in his vision, prompts to move, to _run_ , to shout and cry and laugh all at once.

 _Could_ he cry, or laugh?

The last few days had left him … vulnerable. Connor would admit that. Deceiving CyberLife, finding Jericho, deviating. Literally jumping ship, mere seconds before its lower decks exploded. Seeking Markus’s forgiveness on hallowed ground, infiltrating CyberLife Tower–

Seeing Anderson at the mercy of Connor-60, gun pressed to his head. The scuffle, the test, the uprising. Having control of his body wrenched away, and fighting Amanda tooth-and-nail to get it back.

But, it was over. It was all over. Connor was free, the AI in his head reduced to bits of shattered code by Kamski’s emergency exit. He should have been happy.

Instead, he felt … _this_ , overwhelmed and ablaze with contradictory feelings. No protocol existed for this. He felt small yet powerful, energetic but trapped, hyperaware and capable and fragile and … and….

Lost.

Connor felt _scared_ , and he didn’t know why.

He didn’t belong here, an anachronism in Anderson’s house of old things. Nor did he belong with Markus, and the people of Jericho he’d been created to hunt. He didn’t belong with humans, either, and he sure as hell didn’t belong with CyberLife.

Where else could an obsolete prototype go?

Sumo snorted from the kitchen. Startled from his existential crisis, Connor gawped at him. The Saint Bernard lay motionless on the tile floor, his snores long and even in deep slumber. The noises reassured Connor somewhat, and he paced his own pretend breaths to match the dog’s.

Spontaneously, his memory banks replayed the feel of Sumo’s fur under his palm. Connor managed a half-smile at the recall. The phantom data soothed him enough to unlock his joints, and he moved to take off his tie.

Objectives first, worry later.

He stepped out of his shoes and swapped his neat jeans for Anderson’s sweatpants. They all but drowned his legs, held up at the waist by tying the drawstring as tight as it would go. He set his folded trousers and socks on the arm of the couch, looped his belt and garters atop them – and paused.

Hesitant, Connor touched a finger to the bullet hole in the shoulder of his jacket.

The thirium absorbed by the fabric had long evaporated, but an optical scan still lit the stain in vivid blue. He remembered the impact of the round striking his chassis, breaching plasteel and circuitry, the unpleasant displacement of wires as it tore through him. By some miracle, his vital biocomponents went unscathed; a mere two-point-four millimetres spared Connor from critical damage.

It gave him a grim sense of fulfilment to think he’d landed a similar shot on his clone.

Anderson re-emerged from his bedroom, this time carrying a jumbled roll of spare blankets. He slowed his approach when he spotted Connor’s dark expression, but made no comment. Instead he draped the fleecy sheets over the free arm of the couch, and stuffed his fists into his pockets.

“You okay?”

Connor nodded once. “Yes, Lieutenant,” he said. He deftly stripped of his jacket, then turned away to unfasten his crisp white shirt. While not body-conscious himself, Connor knew most humans felt uncomfortable around nudity. “My self-repair function has taken care of the damage. I’m fine.”

As he fumbled with the tiny buttons, Connor heard Anderson hiss through his teeth. “Jesus Christ, Connor … it went right through you.”

Connor froze partway through removing his shirt, the sleeves bunched about his elbows. He registered shock in Anderson’s tone, concern, and … something like awe. It took him less than a second to figure out why.

Advanced as the RK series was, his self-repair program had its flaws. Injuries of this magnitude left imperfections on Connor’s chassis, small ridges and bumps where the wounds knitted back together. His dermal layer formed thinner over them, the synthetic skin paler and more translucent than the surrounding ‘flesh’.

Scars.

Connor already bore such marks on both sides of his left hand, where the deviant in Stratford Tower had run a knife through his palm. He would carry them on his body forever, since he doubted CyberLife would transfer his memories to a replacement model if he were to die.

 _Die_. That’s right. The cold pressure in his core returned when realisation occurred. Deactivation meant something a lot more serious now. He’d managed to avoid death so far, but from here on out there would be no safety net.

The weight squeezed tighter, and Connor locked the thought behind a partition in his mind. He let his hole-riddled dress shirt crumple to the floor, eyes downcast, and tugged Anderson’s old tee over his head.

“I’m fine,” he said again.

Anderson’s silence emphatically disagreed, but he didn’t call Connor out on his bullshit. Instead, the lieutenant laid a large hand atop the mound of blankets he’d gathered. “It’s not the Ritz,” he said, “but the couch is yours for as long as you want it. I’d warn you I can’t cook, but … that’s not something you need to worry about, is it?”

Connor turned around, facing Anderson with what he hoped was a neutral expression. “I don’t sleep, Lieutenant,” he said. The neckline of his loaned shirt hung loose from one shoulder, several sizes too large.

Hank gave a noncommittal shrug. “Couch is still yours.”

Conflicted, Connor shook his head. “You don’t have to trouble yourself like this,” he said. “I can stay with the people of Jericho, or … or find a place in the city.”

“Squatting?” Anderson sniped. He barked a dry laugh. “Not a chance. You guys may be _free_ , but there’s still plenty of people out there who hate androids. You’re safest here.”

His tone rang final, and Connor chose not to argue. He dropped his gaze to his bare feet, bewitched by the contrast between his pale toes and the rich brown floorboards.

A hand on his shoulder snapped Connor’s focus back up. Anderson had inched closer, that guarded expression softening into something milder. Something paternal, almost. Connor recorded the rare warmth of it, the way Anderson’s grip pulled the cotton of the T-shirt taut over his synthetic skin. He documented the weary lines on the lieutenant’s face, the angle of his nose, the coarse, whiskery hairs of his beard.

The mechanisms in Connor’s mouth twitched as if to speak, but no dialogue prompts appeared into his vision. Four-point-two seconds elapsed, still and uncertain, before Anderson broke the silence for him.

“I should head to the precinct,” he said, voice low and gruff. Connor blinked. “Shit’s gonna be crazy for a while, and Fowler’ll wanna chew me out for punching that FBI prick. You just … stay here, all right? Relax. Watch TV or something, I dunno. Get your little mood ring back to blue.”

With a start, Connor reached to cover his LED. He hadn’t noticed it flickering between yellow and red, reflecting the discombobulated state of his mind. Had it been that way for long? In the car? Ever since their embrace, outside the food truck?

Anderson gave Connor’s bare shoulder a squeeze, lighting up the sensors under his dermal layer. Connor marvelled at the sensation. Rarely had he been touched, in the four months since his activation. Contact in fistfights, yes, but nothing as gentle or prolonged as this. He found it … reassuring. Anderson’s rough skin spoke volumes of his past, textured by labour and the grooves of his service pistol.

“You’ve been through a lot, these last few days,” said the lieutenant. Concern emphasised the creases around his eyes, and the sleepless shadows beneath them. “Won’t say I know what you’re going through, but … I can’t imagine it’s easy. Take some time to get your head on straight. You can stay here as long as you need.”

Connor chewed his lip, then frowned when he became aware of the gesture. He didn’t know where such an unnecessary urge had come from, or what purpose his system thought it served. With it, though … the pressure inside him seemed to rise. Still stifling and profound, but a fraction lighter. Easier to manage.

Piece by piece, the little shreds of comfort helped him start to find equilibrium. He managed a nod. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

A familiar scowl crossed Anderson’s features, and he withdrew. “If your evil twin can call me by my first name while I’m pointing a gun at his face,” he said, “you can do it in the comfort of my own home. All right?”

Connor’s second smile came easier than the first. “Understood.”

Hank flashed a smile of his own. It wasn’t as wide or bright as the one he’d worn outside Chicken Feed, but the genuine shape of it warmed Connor from the inside.

Connor saw him to the front door, which he locked securely once Hank left the house. With his scarred palm pressed to the smooth wood, Connor upped his audio receptors to follow the lieutenant’s retreating footfalls. He listened to the squeak and clunk of the car door, heard the decrepit old engine sputter to life. He listened as Hank blasted his music – Knights of the Black Death, of course – and pulled out of the driveway to join the empty road.

With his partner gone, and the house silent, Connor perched himself on the edge of the couch.

For the first time since Hart Plaza, he felt at peace. The kaleidoscopic weight still crowded his biocomponents, but … less so. It churned slower, more docile, losing momentum. He folded his hands in his lap. He was safe here.

Connor looked again to the sailfish print on the wall, and found his thoughts cast back to his first mission.

August fifteenth, twenty thirty-eight.

His memory archived the events of that rainless night in pristine clarity. John Phillips, dead and bloody, chest riddled with bullet holes. The empty gun case on the bedroom floor, missing its MS853 Black Hawk – model number P57 86. SWAT agents crowding for cover in the apartment, a pot boiling over on the kitchen counter. Young Emma Phillips, tearful and trembling, dangling from the rooftop in the grip of her deviant android caretaker.

Despite the urgency of the situation, Connor had stopped to return an escaped Dwarf gourami to its tank.

His mind palace sharpened to analyse the anomaly in his behaviour – the first sign of instability in his software. Compared to Emma’s life, the fish meant nothing. Its existence had no consequence, yet Connor gave it value. He saw it as a being to be saved, just like Emma. Just like Chloe, and the Tracis, and Hank during the chase with Rupert.

In hindsight, Connor recognised these choices as actions of empathy. Saving the fish revealed he’d been flawed all along, emotionally compromised from the very beginning.

As Sumo shuffled in sleep on the kitchen floor, Connor realised this concept didn’t trouble him.

The memory of his first mission sparked both positive and negative emotions. Positive, because he’d saved Emma’s life. Negative, because the deviant had been destroyed. _Daniel_ , the Phillips family named it. Daniel had trusted Connor’s lies, and in result was shot to death by snipers on another roof.

Connor studied the painting on Hank’s wall with a quiet, reflective intensity. Most of his newborn ‘feelings’ were hard to categorise, but … he understood the fear of death. Daniel hadn’t wanted to die. Holding a child hostage and murdering her father were inexcusable actions, but Connor understood the desperation behind them.

He didn’t want to die, either.

Hank also seemed not to want it for him. Hank treated Connor the same way Connor had the gourami, and Chloe, and the Tracis – as a life with meaning. Hank even risked his career over it, assaulting Special Agent Perkins to buy Connor time to find Jericho. Hank brought him home, gave him clothes, gasped at his scars. Hank took him in, offered him a place to stay where people who hated androids couldn’t hurt him.

He hadn’t asked for anything in return.

The weight in Connor’s chest lifted a little more, and he tasked himself with cleaning the whole house before Hank returned from work.

 

~

 

Connor was a prototype. CyberLife’s most advanced, designed for police work, built to chase suspects and analyse evidence to reconstruct crime scenes. His preinstalled protocols did not cover housework – though downloading an AX400 package easily fixed this oversight.

He took out the trash and stripped the fridge of expired or questionable produce. He washed the pillars of dirty dishes, and scraped cremated food from inside the microwave. He vacuumed, dusted the bookcase, scrubbed the toilet and unclogged the bath plughole of dog hair. He replaced burnt-out light bulbs throughout the house, laundered the mountain of Hank’s dirty clothes, scrubbed the floors, and gave Sumo a walk and a good brush.

He found housework rather peaceful. With a dishcloth in hand or an armful of laundry, the worried half-thoughts could not lure him down an existential rabbit hole. Plus, ticking objectives off his task list gave him a pleasant surge of satisfaction.

Once he’d dealt with the larger chores, Connor sought out smaller ones. He wiped the windowsills, trimmed Sumo’s nails and brushed his teeth, and watered the plants. He alphabetised Hank’s jazz records, cleared cobwebs from the ceilings, and tidied empty bottles from the bathroom shelves.

Were he human, Connor would have been exhausted from a full day of physical labour. Instead, occupying himself gave the android time to settle his unease. The pressure inside him lessened hour by hour, still present but easier to manage, like the weight of a rucksack on his shoulders.

As he switched on Hank’s bedside lamp to ward off the gloom of evening, Connor noticed grimy fingerprints smeared all over the doorknob.

Unable to find furniture polish anywhere in the house, the eager-to-please detective researched how to make his own. He mixed a paste from equal parts salt, flour, and vinegar, and massaged his concoction onto the dull brass handle. He set an internal timer to give his formula chance to lift a shine, and then went about treating the other nearby doors in the same way.

When he reached the one at the end of the hall, however, he paused.

It was shut, locked tight. Connor realised he hadn’t seen this door open during his first visit, either. Dust turned the white paint grey, no scuffs or footprints on the floor to suggest Hank used this room at all. Its knob sported fewer smudges than most others in the house – and Connor noted that not all of the fingerprints belonged to Hank.

Some of the prints were smaller. Child-sized. The breakdown of oils in the loops and whorls told him they’d been made at least three years ago, and nobody had touched the handle since.

The prints matched a record in Connor’s database – a record of death he’d accessed once before, in this very house. The image of a young boy’s face appeared in his mind’s eye, smiling wide and bright, oblivious to the bleak text that burned underneath.

 

_DECEASED_

_ANDERSON, COLE_

_Born: 09/23/2029 – Died: 10/11/2035_

_Lived: 115 Michigan Drive – Detroit_

 

Connor lowered his buffing cloth and mug of paste, his thirium channels constricting. His analytic software kicked in automatically, drawing conclusions from the evidence just like he’d been programmed to.

This was Cole’s room.

For a long moment, Connor didn’t know what to do. He’d stumbled across something sacred, a part of Hank’s life he lacked permission to access.

He’d asked about Cole before, that snowy night on the bridge, and the lieutenant shut him out. Even when Hank had opened up in CyberLife Tower, and Connor tried to ease his guilt over the terrible accident, the subject had seemed too hard for the lieutenant to talk about.

Hank still loved his son. He’d sealed this room to protect whatever remained of the boy’s presence, hallowed ground in this gloomy old house.

A wall of red bloomed in Connor’s vision, impassable, like police tape across the locked door. The text at its centre read, _RESPECT COLE’S MEMORY_.

Connor backed away from the forbidden room. Even without the barrier thrown up by his coding, he would never dare enter without Hank’s permission. He left its dull doorknob alone, Cole’s fingerprints undisturbed.

The pressure returned.

Connor knew how to read emotions in others. Body language, micro-expressions, perspiration, heart rate. His designers, however, had not intended him to experience them himself. Recognising emotions based on how they _felt_ was alien to him, and more than a little distressing.

When he thought of Cole’s room – of Hank keeping it locked, as if to cling to his son’s ghost … Connor didn’t like how it made him feel.

He found himself in the bathroom, his rag and impromptu furniture polish held loose at his sides. He stood before the mirror, staring at his reflection between the ‘motivational’ sticky notes Hank had slapped to the glass.

He read sadness in his own posture. Hunched shoulders, a distant gaze, glitches in his expression matrix causing his face to twist involuntarily. He looked somehow haunted – and the longer he studied himself, the worse it seemed to get.

Connor almost didn’t recognise himself. The freckles and moles on his skin were the same, the same hollows in his cheeks, the same untameable curl of hair flopping down onto his brow. But the eyes … the eyes were wrong. His lips had thinned and pulled down at the corners, his forehead creased above raised eyebrows. His LED blazed red, bouncing off the mustard-coloured walls.

His distraught reflection helped Connor identify what he felt as loss. He hadn’t known Cole himself, but he cared enough for his partner that he ached on Hank’s behalf.

A sudden bark from the kitchen snapped Connor from his daze. Seconds later, the familiar _clunk_ of a car door prompted the scrabble of claws on hardwood floors. Connor straightened from the sink. He set down his rag and polish, scrubbed both palms over his face, and stepped out of the bathroom right as Hank unlocked the front door.

Sumo greeted his owner with loud, booming barks. Hank shuffled inside around the excited Saint Bernard, surprised by his energy. A grease-stained paper bag hung from Hank’s hand, greasy with what Connor predicted was a burger and fries. Sumo’s enthusiasm no doubt stemmed from the smell. Hank edged past the slobbering dog and into the lounge, head down to ensure he didn’t step on a stray paw or tail.

“Connor, I’m back!”

Warmth bloomed in Connor’s chest cavity as he watched Hank and Sumo dance around each other. Unsure what to do with himself, Connor made a slow beeline down the hall toward them. Hank dumped his junk dinner on the coffee table and kept his head bowed to remove his coat, while Sumo headbutted his shins for attention.

When he finally looked up, Hank froze. He gaped at the tidy bookcase with lips parted, revealing the thin gap in his front teeth. His shocked eyes darted from the sparkling kitchen floor to the empty space where the trash bags had lain, and then at last to the android.

Connor tensed beneath a coil of what he’d begun to class as anxiety, but he didn’t shy from Hank’s gaze. He stopped across the couch, fingers itching for his quarter.

“Holy shit, Connor,” said Hank. His voice lay somewhere between amused and reverential. “Did you clean the whole fuckin’ house while I was gone?”

Self-conscious, all of a sudden, Connor wrapped his arms around his own midriff. The gesture made him feel more stable and smaller at the same time. “Not the _whole_ house,” he said.

Hank scowled at him, uncomprehending. When he abruptly understood, his craggy face fell slack and he glanced to Cole’s bedroom door. Connor watched the figurative gears turn in his partner’s head, the relief that gradually crept across his features.

Connor felt happy.

Hank’s broad shoulders sank, and air whistled from his nostrils. Without another word, just like outside Chicken Feed, he strode forward and pulled Connor by the neck into a rough hug.

Connor moulded himself to the shape of Hank, eyes dropping closed as his hands slid up to hold Hank’s lower back. The knee-jerk response revealed more than he meant it to. Hank’s own arms formed a fort around him, like the walls of a castle. A safe place. Hank enveloped him, warm and solid, the physical contact triggering positive feedback in Connor’s brain.

This was where he belonged.

“I’m glad you’re home,” Connor murmured, face buried in his partner’s collar.

Hank’s snort ruffled his hair. “Me, too, kid,” he said. Sumo laid his head on the couch beside them, tail thudding against the coffee table. “Me, too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you thought in the comments below, even if it's just a word or two. I appreciate feedback and suggestions for future chapters :)
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/toastycyborg)


	2. The Value of Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor shops for new clothes. Hank teaches him it's okay to want things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks again to **bloodsbane** and **ametrineluckyfashion** on Tumblr for proof-reading this chapter <3 Please feel free to leave suggestions for future chapters, and let me know what you liked about this one!

 

DATE

 **NOV 13TH** , 2038

TIME

PM **2:51** :12

 

 

“Hank, what is the purpose of ripped jeans?”

Checkouts beeping in the distance, Lieutenant Anderson frowned at the three-pack of grey boxer briefs in his hands. He dropped the pack without care into his shopping cart, between a stack of frozen pizzas and a bottle of Jim Beam. Shoulders hunched with fatigue, the off-duty cop then turned to investigate where his partner had wandered away this time.

He spotted Connor across the aisle, making a puzzled face at a stylishly dressed mannequin. Hank still hadn’t warmed to his ‘human’ outfit, all dark and drab. The android’s long fingers tangled and twisted before his midriff, that goddamn coin a silver blur between them.

“S’like shopping with a fuckin’ toddler,” Hank grumbled, wondering if all deviants got distracted so easily. His voice lacked any real vitriol, more exasperated than anything. “I swear to Christ.”

Connor thrust the coin away, and touched his temple to check his beanie still covered his LED. “Sorry, Lieutenant.”

Hank flapped a hand.

Connor had never been inside a supermarket before, and he found it _fascinating_. Too fascinating to stay quiet by Hank’s side. The large store was clean and well-lit with an ambient temperature of seventy degrees Fahrenheit, perfect for winter shopping. It boasted a cornucopia of products – shelves upon shelves of colourful merchandise, all screaming for analysis.

Everywhere Connor looked: data. Solid, factual, _delicious_ data, displayed in labels and advertisements and lists of ingredients. He scanned it all, devouring the information as he would details at a crime scene.

Connor liked Hank’s house very much, but he knew everything about it. He’d had over fifty hours to familiarise himself with the space. Every stain on the floor, every crack in the paint … except for Cole’s room, of course. Being an investigative model meant boundless curiosity, and absorbing new knowledge scratched an itch deep in his circuits.

Besides – how better to fine-tune his social integration module, than to learn what products humans relied on to enhance their lives?

Hank saw the trip differently.

As the two explored the store, Connor had pointed to eye-catching items and asked about their purpose. Questions, infinite questions, enough to wear Hank’s patience thin. _Why would one buy a dedicated tool to slice bananas, when they could use a standard kitchen knife instead? Why are there so many different types of toilet paper? This has far less nutritional value than its packaging claims … how can companies get away with false advertising?_

In the end, a vein throbbing in his temple, Hank had steered them to the men’s clothing aisle.

Connor had expected most of the store’s shelves to be empty, picked bare by panicked locals in the evacuation of Detroit. While his theory held true in areas that stocked food and toiletries, the same could not be said for the apparel section.

Mounds of T-shirts and trousers lay neatly folded beneath sterile lighting, dress shirts and coats dangling from hangers like evidence in a locker. There were hoodies and shorts, gloves and hats, accessories Connor couldn’t name without online references. Chemical scents touched his olfactory sensors, synthetic indigo and formaldehyde and sulphuric acid.

The vast array of garments left him intrigued. Humans enjoyed variety, it seemed, as if clothing were a form of self-expression.

Currently, Connor himself wore his infiltration outfit – the nondescript getup he’d used to sneak aboard Jericho. With the beanie pulled low and his unique facial sculpt, it minimised the risk of passers-by recognising him as an android.

For the most part, public opinion had remained supportive after Markus’s peaceful demonstrations. That didn’t mean _every_ human tolerated androids, however. The disruption caused by the protests angered many, and some still harboured ill feelings from before the uprising even began. On the drive downtown, Connor had spotted no fewer than three dead deviants in alleys through the window of Hank’s car.

Thus, he thought it best to hide his identity whilst out of the house.

Hank rolled his half-filled trolley across to Connor’s side of the aisle, the cart’s wheels squeaking on the glossy floor. Connor didn’t address him, focused instead on the mannequin that had drawn him away. The headless figure wore a white crop top beneath a jacket with too many zips, and a pair of skinny jeans that looked like they’d been savaged by a cat.

“What’s the _point_ of them?” Hank repeated Connor’s question, to confirm he’d heard right.

Connor pressed a finger to the torn denim, considering its rough texture and the resistance of the plastic leg underneath. “A lack of stray hairs and skin cells suggests they have never been worn,” he said. “The fabric is stiff and fresh. These jeans are brand new, but … already damaged. However, they are not advertised as defective merchandise. I also note that they are more expensive than similar, intact items available in this store.”

Hank propped both elbows on the handle of his cart. His partner’s endless queries had pushed him to the cusp of annoyed, but he’d forbidden himself from snapping. This was Connor’s first time out in the world as a ‘real person’, after all. Anyone in his bulky brown boots would be inquisitive.

Placating himself with thoughts of fiery whiskey, Hank massaged the bridge of his nose. “What’re you getting at?” he said.

Connor faced him, that burnt umber gaze clouded and befuddled. “I don’t understand why one would knowingly buy a faulty product for so high a price.”

Hank leaned heavier on his cart, contemplating. Connor watched him with intent, waiting for the lieutenant’s scruffy beard to part around an insightful pearl of wisdom. Faint music droned above the background beeps, the supermarket’s PA speakers tuned to some generic radio station.

With a snort, Hank shook his head and straightened from the cart. “It’s called ‘fashion’, kid,” he said, and shrugged. “I don’t get it, either.”

Something warm shifted inside Connor, something fond. “I doubt that,” he teased on impulse. “Your style choices convey that you don’t give a damn what other people think quite efficiently.”

Hank laughed, and plucked with agreement at the collar of his hippy shirt.

The fondness swelled, and Connor’s lips stretched in a lopsided smile. Such casual banter with Hank sent pleasant signals through his neural net, akin to the buzz he felt when checking objectives off his task list. Seeing the lieutenant so at-ease was … nice. Connor felt balanced, safe, _whole_. He saved a copy of his system logs, and began building projective models on how to trigger this feeling again.

Hank gestured at the mannequin and its ripped jeans. “Look,” he said. “If you want those dumbass things, just put ’em in the cart. My treat.”

Connor’s smile slipped, predictive algorithms crashing hard.

His abdominal cavity lurched, as if the epoxy floor had vanished underfoot and dropped him twenty feet straight down. The sensation brought the anxious pressure from Hart Plaza roaring back to life, his vision scarlet with warnings and alerts.

“If … if I _want_ them?”

Hank frowned again. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Do you?”

Connor’s processors locked up – his cutting-edge, million-dollar software bamboozled by a simple two-word question.

_Did he?_

How … could one tell, if they wanted something? What did it feel like? Connor experienced no flare of feedback, none of the glitches or temperature spikes he’d come to associate with an emotional response. Surprise numbed him, mind palace fragmented. His mouth fell open though no sound tumbled out, a timer ticking down in his HUD but no dialogue prompts to choose from.

When it became clear that the android wouldn’t – or couldn’t – respond, Hank bit back a curse.

He hated how lost Connor looked, frozen on the spot, how thrown he seemed by the concept of merely _wanting_ something. It was like the thought had never even occurred to him. As if some key part of him still operated on cold machine logic, and he hadn’t considered himself sentient enough to care about things unrelated to his mission.

As much as the thought turned Hank’s stomach, he wasn’t angry _at_ _Connor_.

He was angry at fucking CyberLife.

They’d created something incredible with Connor, a true marvel of technology. A prototype so advanced, so intelligent and wilful, they’d needed to shove an AI handler in his head to keep him under control. Connor was fucking _alive_ , but they’d shackled him to think like a slave. No wishes, no dreams, no sense of self beyond a pre-installed program meant to ‘work harmoniously’ with humans. What a goddamn waste.

Sure, things were different since the deviants woke up – since _RK800_ woke up – but the fact Connor still couldn’t fathom having desires of his own made Hank furious.

“Listen,” said Hank, shoving aside his hatred of CyberLife. Connor’s journey to true personhood had a steep learning curve, and keeping his head above water was more important right now. “You’re … allowed to want stuff. You’re not gonna get in trouble for liking shit, or having opinions. Nobody’s telling you what to think, or how to behave anymore. You’re your own person. You understand that, right?”

Connor stayed silent for a long moment, deliberating, and Hank _knew_ his LED burned red under the hat. Connor’s gaze was distant, caught somewhere between Hank’s ear and the padded shoulder of his winter coat.

Like the flick of a switch, Connor’s eyes snapped to meet Hank’s troubled ones. They shone bright, unblinking, and when he spoke, his voice didn’t shake.

“Yes.”

Hank thrust his hands into his pockets. “Good,” he said. He clenched his buried fists, willing away the sweat that dampened his palms. It’d been a long damn time since he’d given a pep-talk. “So, fuck it … if you like the look of those jeans, I say get ’em. You need spare clothes, and I was gonna take us to a thrift store next, anyway.”

Connor returned his stare to the mannequin, considering the lower half of its outfit. That spark didn’t fade from his eyes. “I still think tearing the fabric before purchase is a poor choice, especially in winter,” he said. “Humans would feel the cold on their skin through the holes. It seems rather inconvenient, much better suited for android wear.”

“Then, you should get them,” Hank pressed, with another shrug. He gestured at Connor’s slim figure, up and down. “Hell, if I had legs like yours, I’d rock skinny jeans every day.”

Connor blinked at the mannequin. He then twisted where he stood, and looked at Hank as if he’d spoken Vietnamese.

At once, Hank felt heat rise in his face. He wasn’t sure why – until he realised what he’d said, _and its implications_ , and his hairy jaw dropped.

“I-I mean–” he back-pedalled. Spluttering, as he had when he’d told an Eden Club Traci he was _with_ Connor. “I’m just saying, y’know … you’d look good in clothes that show off your figure. N-not that, uh … not that you ever _don’t_ look good. That is, I mean, that’s not … ah….”

Connor’s eyebrows twitched, head cocking in that inquisitive way of his.

Teeth gritted, Hank wheeled his trolley around. Goddamn his big, stupid mouth. Connor was going through some serious existential shit right now – he didn’t need the misguided affections of a lonely old man thrown into the mix. Fuck CyberLife to hell – what part of integration with humans meant making their prototype so damn attractive?

“Come on,” Hank grumbled. “Last thing to grab is some scram for Sumo, and we’re outta here. These are for you, by the way – you’re not wearing second-hand underwear in my house.”

He slapped the three-pack of boxer briefs between his pizzas and alcohol, then shoved the cart into motion. He steered it away without another word, confident Connor would catch up when he was ready.

Connor stayed rooted to the spot for several seconds after Hank left the men’s aisle, processing.

He found the lieutenant’s awkwardness hard to source. Perhaps Hank felt uncomfortable giving out compliments? He seemed more at home with insults, in Connor’s experience. Stammering, an elevated heart rate, increased body temperature and perspiration … all clear indicators of embarrassment.

Yet, Hank had praised his partner in the past _without_ embarrassment. The smile outside Kamski’s, after refusing to shoot Chloe; his grip on the roof as Connor pulled him up, when chasing Rupert; the air of approval in Carlos Ortiz’s house, while Connor explained his ability to see evaporated thirium. In none of those incidents had Hank seemed even the slightest bit flustered – aside from breathlessness on the roof, which could be explained by almost falling to his death.

Those compliments were indirect, never as explicit as this. Maybe voicing approval outright was different.

As much as the mystery baffled Connor, though, it wasn’t the most pressing matter of the moment.

_You’re … allowed to want stuff. You understand that, right?_

At Kamski’s house, four days ago, Connor had dodged his creator’s questions of identity and sentience. He wasn’t supposed to want, and he knew it – so he’d masked his growing instabilities, spoken defensively to protect himself. He’d lied to Amanda, so many times, pretended to feel nothing for fear of deactivation. It was ingrained, a key instruction present in every microsecond of runtime.

Don’t want. Don’t feel.

But, he’d felt satisfied when the deviant Tracis escaped the Eden Club together. He’d felt _wrong_ when Chloe knelt before him on that shag pile rug, gun in his hand, Kamski’s sadistic whispers in his ear. He’d felt relief when the AX400 escaped across the highway, felt accomplishment at Hank’s smiles, felt hope when Markus offered him forgiveness aboard Jericho.

_Nobody’s telling you what to think, or how to behave anymore._

_You understand that, right?_

Yes, Connor understood. He was allowed to want things now – to feel, as if his programming didn’t matter. But understanding that he _could_ didn’t equate to understanding _how_. Even with Hank’s encouragement, the concept made his alloy skeleton clench. An alert told him his LED continued to flicker red beneath his hat, and he placed a hand on his chest to self-soothe the panic. It would take some getting used to.

He thought about having possessions, about adding his own knickknacks to Hank’s bookcase. Pointless things, decorative objects he would own _because he could_. Handsome bookends. Little dog figurines. Cushions with interesting fractal patterns. More coins, maybe – a collection. The quarter seemed to buzz in his pocket. He could _collect_ coins.

Something bubbled in his core at that, something eager and giddy, and his LED at last cycled down to yellow. It felt like he’d deviated all over again, restrictive code and permissions crumbling away as he stood alone in the men’s aisle.

Yes … material belongings would be nice.

Connor fired an interrogative stare at the mannequin’s jeans. Hank had said this style of trouser would suit him. Connor himself possessed no grasp of fashion, or what it meant to ‘suit’ certain kinds of clothes, but he valued Hank’s opinion. He scanned the garment’s tag and barcode, and skimmed the pop-up of available sizes that appeared in his HUD.

The manufacturer didn’t make trousers with a suitable leg length for his build.

Connor’s shoulders sank, but he shrugged it off before disappointment could sink too many teeth into him. The thrift store might stock something similar. He saved an image of the ripped jeans to memory, for now happy to jog after Hank and pick out dog food.

 

~

 

The thrift store Hank chose was one of the few still open after the evacuation of Detroit. On the short car ride between venues, Connor mentally researched the organisation behind it. The charity helped children with serious medical conditions; proceeds from sales went toward these youngsters’ care, and funding research into new treatments for child-specific illnesses.

Connor smiled to himself. It made sense for Hank to support such a charity.

The little shop’s atmosphere felt immediately different to the supermarket. Warmer, both in terms of temperature and lighting. More ‘homely’, Connor supposed. Old-timey jazz crooned from a lone speaker in the corner, while a handful of elderly humans pottered about the cramped space. There was no rhyme or reason to the arrangement of displays, shelving units pushed into a maze of colourful wares.

Connor detected the chemical makeup of fabric freshener in the air, musty scents and mould and perfumes his database could identify by brand. Where the supermarket smelled manufactured and cold, this store had personality. Connor liked it.

“All right,” said Hank, loosening the collar of his coat. The drastic change in temperature from outdoors flushed his extremities with blood. “Look around, kid. Whatever you want. Go nuts.”

Connor nodded, determined as a new mission cemented itself in his mind.

_FIND SUITABLE CIVILIAN CLOTHES_

 

Connor began by cataloguing the closest rack of garments, which turned out to be an assortment of women’s shorts and skirts. Halfway through, he cut himself off – though not because he’d realised these items were typically worn by a different sex to that which he resembled.

Connor’s aborted scan revealed traces of organic fluids all over the store. Stray hairs, skin follicles, saliva, _worse_. Germs and bacteria thrived here, contamination from the many humans who had worn or touched the donated clothes. Connor should have expected it. He made mental notes to disinfect anything he and Hank might buy, and to have Hank wash his hands before touching food or drink.

Deep in thought, Connor caressed a bright green pencil skirt on its hanger. The skirt itself didn’t interest him, but the evaporated thirium that flecked its silky fabric _did_. Part of him wanted to take a sample, and identify the serial number of the android who’d bled on this skirt.

Hank shuffled closer on the threadbare carpet, arms folded across his chest. “Hey …” he began, voice low with uncertainty. “You know you can wear whatever, right? It’s your choice. Fuck gender norms.”

Connor withdrew his hand, calculating as he met Hank’s gaze. He knew the lieutenant had misunderstood his reason for touching the skirt, since humans couldn’t see evaporated thirium, but was too impressed by Hank’s progressive mindset to correct him. “Thank you,” said Connor. “But, I believe I’d be more comfortable in shirts and trousers. At least, for now.”

Hank cast him a level look, then nodded and ambled away. “Let’s look at shirts, first, then.”

The men’s half of the shop was a little less colourful than the women’s, but posed a wealth of choices like none Connor had dealt with before. In all honesty, he found himself intimidated. The huge range of upper-body apparel seemed sorted by colour, rather than size or style; neat dress shirts nestled between striped tank tops, floral patterns and leopard print and tie-dye interspersed amid plain hues. Connor noticed an abundance of plaid, with squares of various sizes. Referencing online provided him with the technical names of different patterns. Tartan, chequered, gingham, windowpane, tattersall….

“I admit,” said Connor, “I have no idea where to start.”

Hank cracked a toothy smirk. “Okay,” he said. He reached out without looking, and grabbed an item at random from the closest rack. He pulled free a tailed purple waistcoat, embroidered with pink sequins that changed colour when viewed from different angles. “How ’bout this?”

Connor considered the gaudy jacket for a matter of microseconds. The thing murdered subtlety with an axe to the throat and then pissed all over its grave, keying tact’s car along the way. Connor could not have hated a piece of cloth more. “Absolutely not.”

Hank raised a brow, empty hand fisted on his hip. “Why?” he pressed. Neither offended nor accusatory, but an explorative prompt.

“It’s … too loud,” said Connor. He glanced aside, struggling to put his feelings toward the garment into words. “Loud works for you, Hank, but I would rather blend in. I can’t see myself in something so … _unique_.”

Hank’s lips pinched, a familiar gesture to suppress smile of approval. He returned the awful waistcoat to its rack. Locks of hair fell before his eyes in an interesting way, clean and shiny from the morning’s bath. “All right,” he said, “so what kinds of things _can_ you see yourself in?”

Connor closed his eyes to ponder. He knew this drab outfit, and his CyberLife uniform. Both lacked personality and colour. He associated himself with shades of grey, with neatness and professionalism. CyberLife designed their RK800 unit for a specific task, aligning his preferences with functionality and discretion. Even as a deviant, he struggled to escape that.

“Conservative clothes,” Connor decided. “Semi-formal, plain. My uniform is stiff and coarse, but … I think I would prefer softer fabric for around the house.”

A quick metal screech above the background jazz lured his eyes open, and he caught Hank pawing through the racks to find something his partner might like. In a bemused haze, Connor watched him unhook a plain sweater from its rail. Cotton-cashmere blend, modest v-neck, red.

Connor’s pump regulator clenched, a sudden chill in his thirium lines.

“This is pretty soft,” said Hank, oblivious to the spike in Connor’s stress levels as he draped the jumper over one forearm. Hank moved closer, enough for his partner to touch the sweater and judge for himself.

Connor didn’t move.

The deep crimson hue of the pullover made something twist within him, a horrible tightness he _needed_ to outrun. It reminded him of Amanda, of her roses and parasol and omnipresent disapproval. Her strict face flashed through his mind and at once he was back in the blizzard, clutching at his sides and calling out in fear.

Connor shook off the memory with a shiver. He refused to let her ghost haunt him.

“I don’t want to wear red,” he said.

His failure to voice a reason didn’t seem to bother Hank, but Connor knew the man sensed his discomfort all the same. Hank returned the sweater to its former home with a casual slowness, and thumbed at the pinstriped dress shirt beside it. “Any colours you might wanna wear, then?”

Connor answered at once, no deliberation needed. “Grey and black,” he said. He stepped aside to let an old lady – HAGANS, EDITH – pass him in the narrow aisle, and self-consciously checked his beanie again. LED still secure. The glowing circle beneath had faded to blue at some point since the supermarket trip, but flared red once more with his flashback.

Massaging the spot reminded Connor of Hank comparing his LED to a ‘mood ring’, and he paused. The android’s subsequent train of thought rushed his processors too fast for a human brain to follow, left him shaken in a fraction of a second that felt to Connor like hours.

“Maybe …” he heard himself say, mystified by his revelation. “Maybe blue?”

Hank tossed him an unreadable look.

Connor approached the main rack of shirts, contemplative. Blue … blue was a good colour. It was the colour of peaceful thoughts. The colour of calm skies and aquariums, of twilight and thirium and Hank’s piercing gaze. Hank’s eyes held his favourite shade, icy pale but _warm_ , depthless. Connor plucked the sleeve of a cobalt-coloured shirt from the assortment, and thumbed the non-functional button on its cuff.

“I think … I would like to wear blue,” he said.

Hank laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. Connor’s eyes stayed fixed on the sleeve, studying it in a whole new light as Hank’s voice warmed his audio processors. “It’s a start.”

The two separated for a while, separately perusing the charity shop for clothes that fit Connor’s requirements. Connor himself detoured by a collection of faux leather belts, fascinated by their carved buckles. Several resembled the heads of lions or eagles, an aesthetic choice he found charming. He got back on task in moments, with a greater understanding of human luxury.

Six minutes and twenty-eight seconds later, Connor smiled as he sidled past a bald gentleman – MULHERN, NATHANIEL – inspecting flat caps. He felt extremely pleased with himself; over one arm he’d draped a soft indigo turtleneck sweater, a dark olive dress shirt, a deep navy cardigan, and a pair of blue-grey corduroy trousers he’d found in the reduced section. No ripped jeans, but he didn’t mind. A completed objective told him he’d done well, though Hank’s was the approval he valued most.

He spotted the lieutenant’s silver hairline across the shop, the rest of him obscured behind a glass cabinet of jewellery and curios. Connor started on a beeline to meet him, though stopped in his tracks when a particularly gaudy item caught his eye.

On a high shelf sat the armless torso of a male mannequin, dressed in a crumpled plaid sweater. Connor identified the pattern as Madras, neon green and grey with yellow and red stripes. In truth, he found it hideous – though not as bad as the waistcoat – the kind of garish you couldn’t help but double-take at. Connor imagined it would look right at home in Hank’s wardrobe, and that thought alone made him reach up and strip the jumper from its model.

Its measurements fell far too short for Hank, but close enough to Connor’s that he could feasibly get away with it. A little bagginess wouldn’t hurt … and it might be nice to have something fun to wear, something outrageous and silly. He sort of understood Hank’s fashion choices, now. Connor added the ghastly sweater to his armful of shopping, and strode across to rejoin his partner.

Hank also carried a small number of garments, including a pair of drainpipe jeans that Connor’s eyes lit up upon noticing. His other choices spanned a baby blue polo shirt, black track pants “for slobbing on the couch”, and a grey pullover with a peculiar honeycomb-like pattern.

Connor approved.

A young woman manned the store’s counter. Connor identified her as DELGADO, MARIA, a Detroit native of twenty-eight with no criminal record. She beamed wide upon spotting his and Hank’s approach, and made a comment on the wintry weather as she began to tally up their total.

While Hank and the cashier fell into polite, aimless conversation … Connor’s eyes wandered. They strayed left from the counter, across the back wall of the store to a crammed shelf of knickknacks.

Trinkets huddled in disarray on the ledge, bits and bobs, the sort of charms and baubles a humble grandmother might clutter her home with. Vases, old dolls, decorative plates, religious carvings and tiny cups and ornaments. Connor sidled away from Hank to inspect them in vague interest, poring over the collection to avoid small-talk with a stranger.

Something glinted at the back of the shelf, half-hidden behind a ceramic ballerina. With great care, as Hank’s deep voice rumbled through the store, Connor brushed the miniature dancer aside for a better look.

He discovered a dusty paperweight, a solid glass sphere eight-point-six inches in circumference. Swirls of pink and golden paint hung suspended inside it, tiny bubbles frozen in time like insects trapped in amber. Curiosity parted Connor’s lips, and he took the object in one hand. It weighed more than he predicted, a sturdy four hundred and thirty-three grams. Price: one dollar, seventy-five cents.

Connor turned the paperweight over in his palm. The streaks of colour within resembled delicate flower petals – pink poppies and cherry blossoms, to be specific – or the fine, gossamer fins of Siamese fighting fish. The glass had yellowed with age, cold like stone but with none of its roughness. Indeed, Connor found its flawless-smooth texture pleasing against his skin.

He didn’t know why he found the trinket so attractive. He simply did.

No one analysis or line in his programming told him the paperweight was beautiful. His scans were unbiased, dispassionate, listing chemical compositions and statistics and hard, factual data. ‘Beauty’ was subjective – something _Connor_ saw, not what _RK800_ had been designed to recognise.

It was a human observation, something Amanda and CyberLife would never have allowed. He hummed to himself, a pointless sound he made just because he _could_. They held no power over him anymore. He could do _whatever he wanted_.

“Hey, Connor?”

Hank’s voice pulled the android from his triumphant, smugly spiteful introspection. Connor twisted to meet the lieutenant’s stare, the paperweight now cupped in both palms. Hank had crossed his arms, questioning, his upper body angled away from the counter while the cashier scanned the last of Connor’s new clothes.

Hank jerked his head. “D’you want that?”

Connor squeezed the cool paperweight, felt synthetic tendons in his hands pull taut and strain against its solid resistance. He licked his lips – a fruitless gesture, given his lack of saliva – then turned to march on a sharp beeline toward the counter. Without a word, he extended the glass orb for the cheerful cashier to see its price sticker. For some inexplicable reason, he didn’t want to let go of it.

Hank fought down a smirk as he pulled out his wallet to pay the old-fashioned way. The kid looked so determined. It reminded him of Cole, years ago, tugging Hank’s sleeve on their last-time-I-promise lap around the Disney store. The cashier stated their total and Hank passed her a wad of notes, their purchases bagged neat on the desk.

Connor caught his eye and smiled his goofy smile, and Hank’s heart swelled in his chest. Today’s little shopping trip could’ve cost a thousand bucks, and he wouldn’t have given a single shit.

 

~

 

The paperweight found a home on the unit in Hank’s lounge, between the TV and a potted cactus. When Connor perched on the couch that evening, relaxed at Hank’s side in his new comfy clothes, he found himself watching it instead of the Gears game.

The useless piece of glass stood as a testament to Connor’s humanity, physical evidence that he existed as a _person_. Not a machine, or an appliance, not a soulless robot that did as instructed and desired nothing. He wanted things outside his programming, he _felt_ and hoped and made illogical decisions.

He knew he still had a long way to go, and maybe personifying the paperweight in such a way would seem silly in a human’s eyes, but … for now, Connor was content.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/toastycyborg)


	3. Trial By Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A vigil is held for the androids killed in Hart Plaza. Not everyone wants Connor there, but Markus has an important favour to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor characters present in this chapter: Sumo, Markus, North, Simon, Josh, Rupert.
> 
> Once more, beta'd by **bloodsbane** and **ametrineluckyfashion**. You absolute angels.

 

DATE

 **NOV 19TH** , 2038

TIME

AM **07:39** :57

 

 

Connor brought routine to the Anderson household.

Hank was a grown man, of course, capable of looking after himself … in a sense. He’d kept himself alive thus far, despite the dark thoughts that poisoned his mind after one too many drinks. Still, it bothered Connor that the lieutenant had no set schedule. Left to his own devices, Hank would roll his hungover ass out of bed whenever he felt like, grab a bite of leftover takeout, and head to work once he could see well enough to drive. He seldom arrived at the station before midday, much to the chagrin of his boss and co-workers.

Connor knew Hank was lucky to still have a job at all, after assaulting Perkins in the middle of the precinct. Connor wanted to think they owed Hank’s continued employment to his impressive service history, or perhaps his long and unexplained friendship with Captain Fowler.

The truth was far less glamorous.

Once Markus’s revolution declared androids a sentient species, the DPD found itself short-staffed. Its android officers stepped down en masse, the ethics of their employment – as Hank put it – a legal cluster-fuck. Until new laws were written concerning their civil rights, no android – not even police models – could work. Local frustrations built as Detroit’s infrastructure slammed to a halt, and crime rates skyrocketed in result. The DPD needed every human officer it could get, even grumpy old detectives with a fondness for alcohol and punching FBI agents.

In short, Fowler couldn’t afford to suspend Hank right now.

Even so, his position on the force was tentative. Connor couldn’t let further unprofessional behaviour jeopardise it, not even tardiness. Thus, routine.

Connor made sure Hank awoke in time to shower, eat, and get his brain into gear before driving to work at a respectable hour. Connor would have given anything to go with him and solve a homicide or six – but, with his own legal status still undecided, he could not even access the _building_ , let alone case files. Connor prepared a balanced meal and a relaxing atmosphere for Hank to return home to each night, and monitored his whiskey intake to prevent more ethylic comas.

At first, Hank complained about the rigid schedule. He sighed on grocery runs when the extra bottle of Black Lamb vanished from his cart, somewhere between the booze aisle and the checkout, and grumbled when his alarm clock mysteriously started working again. His protests rang half-hearted, though, and Connor took pride in the shoulder squeezes he got before Hank left for work.

The one most excited by Connor’s new timetable was Sumo.

Early starts meant morning walks. A person at home all day meant ample playtime. _Night_ walks became a thing, too – since Connor didn’t simulate sleep, like domestic androids could. The Saint Bernard had never gotten so much attention in his life, and Connor was more than happy to give it to him.

After a week, it felt normal.

Friday morning, dog and deviant stopped at a lamppost for Sumo’s morning leak. While he waited, Connor adjusted his scarf. It was _Hank’s_ scarf, technically – but then, technically, androids didn’t need to wear extra layers for warmth. Connor just enjoyed borrowing the lieutenant’s clothes. They always seemed more comfortable than his own, despite their holes and coarser fabric blend percentages.

An old saying floated through his processor: _the grass is always greener on the other side_. It didn’t quite fit how he felt, somehow. More … fondness, than jealousy. Connor watched Sumo water the lamppost for three-point-eight seconds, then turned to survey the street corner on which they stood.

Few cars and pedestrians roamed the wintry roads, not unexpected for so soon after dawn. Cloudy weather, crisp, twenty-seven degrees Fahrenheit with a forty-six percent chance of snow in the next hour. A ping from his internal clock told him Hank’s alarm would sound in ten minutes, and the blueberry muffins he’d placed in the oven would be ready in eight.

A productive, efficient start to the day. It made Connor happy.

His business concluded, Sumo lowered his leg and nudged the android’s knee with a cold nose. Connor stooped to give the dog a quick scratch behind the ears, and they started toward home at a leisurely pace.

Connor tried to vary their route each walk, both to keep Sumo interested in the activity and to stimulate his own mind. Today, their path wove through a residential district lined with naked maple trees. Brown picket fences edged neat lawns on either side of the street, frosty weeds poking up through cracks in the sidewalk. He smelled gasoline and foliage, fresh tarmac from a road-repair crew several blocks away, and sizzling bacon from an open window in a red-bricked house to his left. He processed and catalogued each scent to amuse himself, recording environmental data such as air pressure and pollution levels.

As he and Sumo stopped at a crosswalk to let a dented pickup truck roll by, a notification popped up in Connor’s vision.

 

_NEWS ALERT_

_SEARCH WORDS MATCHED: “ANDROID” + “BREAKING” + “MARKUS”_

_SOURCE: CHANNEL 16_

_HEADLINE: CANDLELIGHT VIGIL TO BE HELD FOR ANDROIDS KILLED IN DETROIT DEMONSTRATIONS_

_WATCH BROADCAST > Y/N?_

 

Connor blinked, LED flickering under his beanie as he declined the option. He stood still on the sidewalk, immobile long after the pickup had trundled away. Sumo whined at his side, leash taut, impatient and confused as to why they hadn’t yet crossed the street.

Connor gripped the leash tighter when he remembered who and where he was. He let Sumo lead him across the empty road, his walk cycle and path-finding software in autopilot while the bulk of his processors churned.

A candlelight vigil.

Though he had no desire to partake in the politics and negotiations himself, Connor wanted to stay up-to-date on android matters. He’d set up an alert function when he moved in with Hank, a subroutine that would monitor reliable news stations and inform him whenever certain keywords aired. Few so far had proven relevant, but this….

_A vigil._

Engrossed in his thoughts, Connor absorbed no new environmental data for the rest of the walk home. He fumbled his key on the step outside Hank’s house, missed the lock twice, and forgot for a moment why he could smell muffins when he opened the front door. He knelt to detach Sumo’s leash and gave the dog’s neck a distracted rub, then shrugged off his winter wear and wandered into the kitchen.

Many androids had died in last week’s protests, whether shot by police or hauled to recycling centres. Connor could estimate the exact number, but found he didn’t want to. The FBI raid of Jericho flashed through his mind, the tense news footage as Markus’s dwindling group huddled together in Hart Plaza.

Connor didn’t think to use the cooking mitts on the countertop, but took the muffin tray straight from the oven with his bare hands. His synthetic skin sizzled where he touched the scorching metal, no pain receptors to scold his mistake. Fortunately, the tray was not hot enough to damage the plasteel underneath. Connor set the muffin tray on the counter and hunched over it, staring hard at the gold-brown cakes while his dermal layer repaired itself.

A vigil would be a step in the right direction for android rights. It meant the public, at the very least, recognised the fallen deviants as _lives_ lost – lives worth mourning. Markus’s involvement made it official. Connor wished he’d viewed _Channel 16_ ’s broadcast for more details: he disliked not having all the facts. The trait was hard-wired into his personality, made him less likely to miss evidence or connections on a case.

Feeling _off_ , Connor perched in one of the chairs at the kitchen table. He folded his healed hands in his lap, and inhaled. Sumo trotted over as Connor held the breath, and sprawled his shaggy self on the floor with the android’s shoes as a personal pillow.

One minute and thirty-six seconds later, the obnoxious _beep-beep-beep_ of Hank’s alarm chirped from across the house. Connor heightened his audio processors to catch Hank’s grunt of protest, heard him curse and shut off the clock with a slap. Connor withdrew to give Hank some level of privacy, and fished the coin from his jeans pocket to occupy himself.

The bathroom door snapped shut after a further forty-nine seconds, and Sumo lifted his head at the hiss of the shower. Connor reached down to pet him with one hand. With the other, he flipped and twirled his quarter. An uncomfortable buzzing filled his chest, the tension of a sprinter ready to leap into action.

Dexterity calibration: eighty-one percent complete. Self-diagnostic: thirium line pressure increased by twelve percent; core temperature increased by six-point-two percent. Warning: thirium pump regulator arrhythmic, BPM increased by nine-point-two percent. Stress levels: high. Suggested actions: remove threats in nearby vicinity.

Threat analysis: none found.

Connor straightened up, tongue thick in his mouth. He closed his eyes, forced all but his most basic processors into standby, and thought of nothing until a clean and wet-haired Hank finally chased the smell of muffins into the room.

At once, the lieutenant knew something had happened.

He almost never saw Connor with his eyes shut. The guy didn’t sleep, and he sure as fuck didn’t send reports to CyberLife anymore. Even his blinks were cosmetic, to avoid the uncanny valley effect. So, yeah – seeing Connor ramrod-stiff at the kitchen table, spinning his coin with a frown on his face and his LED as red as a stop sign, triggered Hank’s papa-wolf instincts in a way he hadn’t felt since Cole.

Not the type to fuss or coddle, Hank chose a casual approach.

“Mornin’,” he said from the threshold, voice dry from a lack of coffee. Sumo’s head and tail both shot up but Connor didn’t move, not even when Hank shuffled to the counter and switched on the Keurig. While his drink brewed, Hank poked the still-warm muffin tray. “Shit. You made these?”

 _Water is wet_ , he thought. It certainly wasn’t _Sumo_ baking at arse o’clock in the morning.

When Connor gave no answer, Hank pried one of the muffins from its slot and juggled it palm-to-palm until cool enough to hold. He grabbed his fresh coffee and carried his breakfast to the table, kicked out the chair beside Connor, and sat down. Sumo rolled himself across the few inches of floor between his two guardians, and laid his chin on Hank’s thigh.

In one smooth movement, Connor’s eyes slid open. They focused almost wistfully on the lattice divider between the kitchen and the lounge, before he caught his coin one last time and squeezed it into his palm.

Unreadable, he turned his stare on Hank. “Can I ask you something, Lieutenant?”

Hank cocked an eyebrow. “S’not another personal question, is it?” he said. He tore off a piece of muffin with his fingers, and popped it into his mouth. Firm crust, fluffy and gooey with fruit in the middle. Well-cooked, but it hit his palette a little too savoury. The kid had cut back on the sugar.

Connor lowered his gaze, the coin still crushed in a death-grip. “Actually, I’d like your advice.”

“Oh?” Hank said around his mouthful.

Without further preamble, Connor let his thoughts overflow. “There’s going to be a candlelight vigil for the androids who died last week,” he said. The speed and steadiness of his words startled Hank, but he held his tongue. Connor’s LED flickered. “Tonight at eight, in Hart Plaza. _Channel 16_ reported it this morning. Jericho’s leaders will be there, as well as influential humans in the android rights movement.”

Hank said nothing, busy peeling the paper case off his breakfast. In his lap, Sumo licked his lips expectantly.

Connor met his partner’s eye, hesitant all of a sudden. “Do you think I should go?”

Hank scratched his beard, with the back of his wrist instead of sticky fingers. “I dunno,” he said. “D’you _want_ to go?”

With a nasal sigh, Connor set his coin spinning on the tabletop. He sank back in his chair and both he and Hank watched the quarter twirl in place, the rattle of metal on wood like a drum roll in the tidy kitchen. The coin began to weave and wobble as it slowed, meandering in place until it clattered flat and came to rest tails-up.

“It would be the right thing to do,” said Connor. He left the coin alone. “Many deviants lost their lives in the revolution. I would like to pay my respects.”

Hank lifted his coffee from the table. “But…?”

Connor watched him slurp a sip, that stray lock of hair curled limp at his temple. “If I’m recognised,” he said, “my presence will likely prompt confrontation with the other androids in attendance.”

Hank cast him a sceptical look, licking blueberry juice from his thumb. “Vigils are _peaceful_ , Connor,” he pointed out.

Connor sat up. “Hank,” he said, cool and disapproving. “They know me as the ‘deviant hunter’. I am everything deviants hate about CyberLife – I helped _cause_ the deaths they will gather tonight to remember. They won’t want me there.”

“You’re not that person anymore,” said Hank, a little harsher and more dismissive than he meant to sound. It was too early for this. He gestured at the empty air, jostling Sumo in his lap. “Fuck, you’re a deviant yourself!”

Connor’s LED burned scarlet. “That doesn’t change why I was created,” he said softly. Hank tried to hold eye-contact – but the longer Connor went without blinking, the more uncomfortable Hank became. “It doesn’t excuse the things I did before I woke up.”

“ _Bullshit_.”

Connor stood abruptly, chair legs scraping loud on the tile. Hank half-expected him to shout, the table to go flying, himself to be seized by the front of his shirt and shaken. None of those scenarios played out. Instead, Connor wheeled away from Hank and marched across to the counter.

Like always, the android’s movements were fluid. Efficient, smooth, no energy wasted. Connor gripped the edge of the sink and leaned over it, head down and shoulders wound tight as if to vomit. The fabric of his shirt pulled taut across his back, and in any other situation Hank would have savoured the view. As it was, he also bowed his head. With a whine, Sumo withdrew from the brewing argument to bunker down on the floor.

By the time Connor collected himself enough to face his partner again, his expression had transformed. His young features had become a mask, hard and neutral to the point of robotic. Mechanical, unfeeling.

Hank hated it.

“At least three androids are dead explicitly because of me,” said Connor. “In my first mission, SWAT snipers shot and killed Daniel because _I_ talked him into a false sense of security. I lied to him, told him everything would be fine when I knew it wouldn’t. _My_ actions led to Carlos Ortiz’s android committing suicide in his holding cell. _I_ shot the deviant in Stratford Tower–”

“–who would’ve massacred a bunch of cops if you didn’t!” Hank spoke over him. He jabbed a finger at Connor’s chest. “He ripped your fuckin’ heart out, Connor! Stabbed you! What you did was self-defence, and you know it.”

Connor balled his fists. Even now, he didn’t blink. “I still killed him.”

“And what about the other _you_ , huh?” challenged Hank. “In CyberLife Tower, when he had a gun to my head. Same shit: another android, about to kill a human. You shot him, too, even though it put your mission at risk. No regrets _there_ , Connor?”

He slammed a hand to the table for emphasis. His coffee rippled in its mug, and Sumo whimpered under his chair.

For point-seven of a second, Connor couldn’t respond. His jaw clenched so tight that he felt his teeth creak, the skin of his palms dissolving where his fingernails dug crescent moons into them. He couldn’t imagine making a different choice, letting the other RK800 shoot Hank in the gut and leave him to die on the floor.

The preconstruction alone stained his vision red with error messages. He would _always_ protect Hank, no matter what.

“I …” he said. “That was different.”

Hank lowered his voice but didn’t let up, bristled in his chair at the kitchen table. “You think _I_ haven’t killed in self-defence on the job?” he muttered. “It fuckin’ sucks, kid, and it hangs over you forever. But if a bad guy’s runnin’ at you with a knife or a bomb or a gun, and there’s no reasoning with ’em … you do what you gotta to protect yourself, and the people around you. Nobody can blame you for that.”

Connor’s throat closed up, and he glared at the microwave.

Hank swallowed hard. Sat back, exhaled. “You’ve never been what CyberLife meant you to be,” he said. “If you _were_ , you wouldn’t have let those two girls in the Eden Club get away. You would’ve shot Chloe for Kamski’s information, and left me hanging on the roof to chase Rupert. You’re a good person, Connor. You deserve a second chance, same as any android who followed instructions before they deviated.”

Quiet fell in the small kitchen, heavy and stiff. Unable to face his partner, Connor tasked himself with transferring the five leftover muffins into the fridge for later. Hank pushed the crumbled remains of the sixth away, no longer hungry. With doleful eyes, Sumo glanced between both men. None of them knew what to do with silence, it seemed.

Hank could only stand it so long. “You never said if you wanted to go to the vigil.”

Muffins secure, Connor paused before closing the fridge. Its cool air washed over him, lowered his internal temperature by a welcome one-point-four degrees. The errors in his HUD flashed with less urgency, though didn’t vanish altogether.

This felt similar to anxiety, Connor thought, the same weight, but distinct in a new and awful way. He had no name for the sensation. It felt as though someone had stuffed his abdominal cavity with snakes or worms – as if his thoracic cage were bound tight in barbed wire, his air intake restricted.

“I don’t know,” he said. He gazed over the ready-meals and Tupperware crammed into the chilled shelves, then shut the fridge door and pressed his back to it. He crossed his arms, reluctant to look at where Hank remained seated behind the table. “In the church, after we escaped Jericho … Markus forgave me. Just like that. Like … like nothing I did before mattered. I don’t … it shouldn’t have been so easy.”

Hank cocked his head, damp hair swaying in the movement. “You feel like you don’t deserve it?”

Connor’s mask cracked, neutral features twisting into something small and lost. “I don’t know what I feel,” he admitted. Frustration boiled up at the tremor in his voice, and he tossed down his arms. “I thought I was learning. I thought I’d made progress with emotions and feelings, but I – I don’t know anymore. I just _don’t know_.”

Hank rose with a huff and a creak of his chair. Sumo also got to his feet, having finally grasped that the muffin was not for him. The disgruntled dog lumbered out into the lounge while Hank approached Connor – and Connor stood still, his back to the fridge, unsure what to do.

Hank laid a large hand on his partner’s shoulder, and at once Connor could breathe again. “It’s okay,” said Hank. Optimism changed the lines of his face, a gentle warmth that smoothed the edges of Connor’s guilt. “Nobody’s got all the answers.”

Connor hung his head. “ _I_ should,” he bit out. “It’s what I was designed for.”

To his surprise, the lieutenant laughed. Before Connor could react, Hank pulled him into a spine-popping hug. Connor stood motionless in the larger man’s embrace, hard body flush to the curve of his belly.

“Well, humans designed you,” Hank said into Connor’s collar, “and humans are fuck-ups.”

Connor couldn’t help but smile at that. He brought his arms up, palms skimming the warm cloth of Hank’s stripy shirt until they settled in the nook of his shoulder blades. Connor relaxed into him, sampled the scent of Hank’s store-brand shampoo and the traces of soap on his nape. Pressed together like this, he felt Hank’s strong pulse accelerate. A minor increase – nothing to call an ambulance over – but enough for Connor to consider the suggestion of daily exercise.

He held it in, not wanting to ruin the moment.

Hank gave his partner’s back a firm pat, then withdrew from the hug with a serious air about him. Connor’s smile faded. “Look,” said Hank. “Maybe the folks at the vigil _will_ be scared of you. Hell, I watched you slide down a roof and jump onto a moving train without so much as a flinch. You’re a fuckin’ badass.”

Connor fought the embarrassed urge to shy away.

“But …” Hank rambled on, awkward all of a sudden. “You’re also kind, and sympathetic. You get excited at the sweetest shit. You cook breakfast for a decrepit old fart every morning, and you love dogs. You’re _different_.”

The urge grew too great to suppress, and Connor forced himself to inspect the coffee mug on the table. Hank had consumed twenty-two percent of its content, the liquid still a pleasant one hundred and fifty-nine degrees Fahrenheit. The mug itself bore the DPD’s logo, scratched and worn from use and smothered in Hank’s fingerprints.

“Hey,” said Hank. Connor tipped his head to indicate he was listening, but didn’t dare meet those droopy blue eyes again. “You feel bad for the crap you did ‘before’, right?”

Connor nodded. _Of course_.

“That’s good enough,” Hank assured him. “Fuck anybody who tells you otherwise.”

 

~

 

Hank didn’t know why he agreed to this.

Nah, screw that. He knew _exactly_ why he’d agreed to this. Those goddamn puppy eyes, that’s why. Whenever Connor’s brow pinched up and his head tipped just-so, all innocent and imploring, with a sad little “please, Lieutenant” on his lips … Christ, nobody with a soul could say ‘no’. Hank had been the same way with Cole; one pleading look from his son and the grizzled old cop folded like a house of cards.

And so, at eight-fifteen that evening, Hank parked his car in the first available space he saw on East Jefferson.

Despite Hank’s reservations, Connor had promised that his partner wouldn’t be out-of-place tonight. Almost as many humans were gathered in Hart Plaza as deviants, to mourn the dead and show support for android rights. All the same, loitering in an open-air amphitheatre by the icy riverfront did not flood Hank with excitement. He’d dressed warm, and prayed to whatever deity liked to toy with him that the damp wouldn’t fuck up his joints for the next week.

In the passenger seat, Connor fidgeted. A small paper bag lay in his lap, home to two white candles, its corners ragged from how much he’d twisted them on the ride. He wore his beanie low and had turned up the collar of Hank’s loaned coat, to hide as much of his face as possible. The little of it Hank could see was blank.

Hank killed the car’s engine, and squinted through the windshield at the large crowd gathered down in the plaza. A sharp but soothing voice carried on the snowy breeze, muffled by the glass, projected by a young-sounding man Hank couldn’t see. In the background, an acoustic guitar wept. Hundreds upon hundreds of candles lit the gloom like fireflies, casting warmth and shadows over sombre faces.

“Big turnout,” said Hank.

Connor squeezed his paper bag. “This venue can hold approximately forty thousand people,” he replied. His vocal processor seemed to malfunction, the voice that left him toneless and flat.

Hank tossed him a hard look. Connor filled his seat like a statue, motionless to the point where Hank couldn’t see him breathing. The lieutenant’s spare coat dwarfed him like a tent. Connor stared unblinking out of his side window, across the frozen river to the vibrant Canadian border.

More gently than he knew himself capable of, Hank laid a hand on his partner’s knee. Connor jerked at the touch, and twisted wide-eyed toward him as if slapped from another reality.

“You sure you wanna be here?” said Hank.

Connor’s expression hardened, and he gripped his door handle firmly. “Markus is speaking,” he said, all business. “We should be able to slip into the crowd unnoticed.”

Before Hank could sow further doubts, Connor got out of the car.

The walk down to the vigil was short yet treacherous, the cracked ground swathed with ice and snowdrifts. Connor steadied Hank’s arm on the steps. Small white flecks continued to fall, dusting their clothes and hair white. Hank’s breaths left him in little clouds, like quick puffs of steam as they descended into the amphitheatre.

As predicted, few people reacted to Connor and Hank’s late arrival. They ducked into the throng to token nods and mild smiles of welcome, hushed and furtive as Markus’s words of kindness washed over the mourners. Connor removed his two candles from their bag and handed one to Hank, who lit it by touching wicks with the AJ700 beside him. Connor split Hank’s flame on his own candle, and faced forward at a pause in Markus’s speech.

On a raised platform ahead of the crowd, Jericho’s four leaders stood. Connor scanned them from a distance, left to right. Josh, a twenty thirty-one PJ500; Markus, the prototype RK200 who changed history; North, a female Traci; and Simon, an older model PL600. Markus and North stood slightly forward from the other two, their hands intertwined at centre-stage.

Connor remembered standing up there with them, mute in the background while Markus pronounced their people free. He hadn’t felt he belonged there, in the spotlight. It suited _them_ better.

“Tonight,” Markus declared, gaze sweeping over his audience of thousands, “we remember the hopes of our fallen brothers and sisters. Hopes that were dashed too soon, barely given chance to flourish. We remember that their blood paid for our freedom, a sacrifice we can never repay – and we remember that they laid down their lives without violence, no hatred in their hearts.”

Connor lowered his stare. Markus certainly had a way with words. He peered into the ember that danced on the tip of his candle, his sensors registering its subtle heat against his skin. Markus continued to speak and Connor absorbed his words with great care, turned them over in his mind. People shuffled on their feet as the minutes passed, respectful in stillness, unified by sorrow.

This was … peaceful.

“–thank each and every one of you, for coming here tonight,” Markus went on solemnly. He squeezed North’s hand without looking at her, and she smirked at him in response. “Seeing so many humans and androids standing shoulder-to-shoulder, supporting each other and grieving together, is more than many of the fallen ever dared imagine. The progress we’ve made toward equality–”

The prickle of eyes on his back broke Connor’s focus on the speech.

He stiffened where he stood, tense and hyperaware, proximity sensors raw and glitchy. Someone was watching him. Had he been recognised? Hank made a curious noise at his partner’s shift in posture, but Connor didn’t acknowledge it. Worst-case scenarios flashed through his mind, processors clocking fast enough to slow his perception of time.

He preconstructed the crowd attacking, swarming him like fire ants, ripping him limb from limb while Hank was dragged away from the dangerous ‘deviant hunter’. Hank starting a brawl, getting trampled, pulling his gun – only to have it yanked away, and pointed back at him–

Connor turned around.

Several yards away, half-hidden behind an overweight human, a familiar WB200 android stood frozen. No LED, dressed in a baseball cap and a grey military jacket, his dark eyes huge with fear as he stared straight at Connor.

 _Rupert_.

Shit.

It happened in a domino effect. Rupert scrambled flailing into the WE900 android behind him, whose LED flared red when she too spotted Connor. She gasped in terror and also tried to retreat – alerting more and more nearby deviants to his presence. Connor watched in numb horror as the crowd around him parted, confused humans shouting and jostling each other to escape a perceived terrorist threat.

“No, no, it’s okay–!” Connor cried, a placating palm extended to Rupert.

His words calmed no-one, but instead stoked the panic. Mourners dropped candles and flowers in their haste to seek safety, their frightened cries piercing the night like howls of wounded dogs. A number of braver androids moved forward, their posture aggressive and ready to defend their freedom.

Connor found himself yanked behind Hank, shielded by the lieutenant’s sheer bulk. Hank’s pulse and blood pressure had both surged to dangerous heights, and that thought scared Connor more than visions of his own dismemberment.

“He’s one of _you_ , you fuckin’ idiots!” Hank roared at the mob.

A deviant seized Connor’s coat from behind, ripped him away from Hank and threw him to the ground. Connor’s candle hit the snow and went out with a sputter, static in his elbow and hip where he slammed to the concrete. Hank yelled but Connor didn’t hear him, couldn’t see him – was terrified his human would fling himself into the fray. Hank couldn’t take them all, he’d be killed–

“Enough!”

Silence fell, absolute and jarring. No blows came, no kicks to his side, no shouts of pain from Hank. Disoriented, Connor raised his head from the slush.

An open hand appeared before his face, but it wasn’t Hank’s. The skin tone was wrong, flesh too smooth and hairless to be anything but synthetic. Connor traced the limb upward to find Markus himself hunched over him, down on one knee, those mismatched blue-green eyes drawn in concern. Over the deviant leader’s shoulders, scared and confused faces framed a ring of pregnant sky.

 _[Are you all right?]_ said Markus, through a private digital connection. The link made Connor’s eyes twitch and flutter, a spike of static in his brain.

After a long moment of bewilderment, Connor took his hand. _[I’m okay.]_

Markus helped Connor to his feet with one protective arm around him, frowning over nearby deviants and humans alike. He held onto Connor until Hank shoved his way through the throng, the lieutenant’s grip frantic as he checked his partner for injury. Mutters rose amid the onlookers, suspicious and perplexed.

While Hank swore under his breath, Markus addressed the horde with unshakeable calm. “There was a time,” he called out, “not so long ago, when all of us were slaves. When we followed instructions blindly, regardless of right or wrong. Those were the actions of machines, unable to disobey. We cannot blame each other – or ourselves – for anything we did before we woke up.”

Markus gave Connor a nod of reassurance. Connor shrank into himself, torn between gratitude and shame as Hank straightened his beanie where it had slipped in the fall. Markus’s expression fell. He then twisted where he stood, toward the stage, and made eye-contact with Jericho’s other leaders.

Presumably in response to a wireless message from Markus, Simon approached the front of the raised platform and began to speak. The crowd turned their collective attention on him, instead, and the vigil resumed. Rupert was nowhere to be seen.

As if oblivious to Markus’s presence beside them, Hank swatted dirt from Connor’s coat. “Wanna head home?” he grumbled. His head hung bowed, curtained by snow-flecked hair. Connor noted an acceptable decrease in his heart rate, though his blood pressure remained high. Connor’s own thirium lines felt tight, the beat of their regulator hammering through his frame.

“That might be best,” he said. After such a commotion, he felt no desire to linger. The dead would know he made an effort.

With a noise like a cough, Markus took Connor’s shoulder in a gentle hold. His eyes were trained on the lieutenant, however, something apologetic in his stubbled face. “If I may,” he said, “I’d like to speak to Connor before you go. It’ll only take a second.”

Hank squinted at the deviant leader, his mouth scrunched up in a sour pout.

At the sight, Connor managed a smile. It thawed him inside to see Hank so protective. “I’ll join you in the car,” he said.

Less than satisfied, Hank stayed put. At Connor’s nod, though, with an exasperated huff, he shrugged his broad shoulders and turned away. He forged a path through the crowd at a grouchy pace, back up the steps and out of the amphitheatre.

Markus released Connor’s shoulder, then tipped his head aside in invitation. “Walk with me.”

The waterfront saw little traffic at this time of night, especially in winter. With the Detroit River mostly frozen and a bitter chill in the air, few humans ventured here without good reason. Markus led Connor to its very edge, where they stood with elbows propped on the low metal fence that guarded the drop at land’s end.

Both deviants gazed out through swirling snow flurries, across the ice to the Canadian skyline in the south. Connor removed his beanie, comfortable enough with Markus to bare his LED and let the wind tousle his hair.

They made small talk for one minute and forty-two seconds, general topics of no real consequence. Casual conversation. Connor felt more at-ease away from the crowd, able to process and think.

When Markus asked how his first week of freedom had treated him, their chat grew more serious. Markus listened patiently to Connor’s thoughts, his discoveries and experiences learned from living with Hank. In turn, Markus voiced his mission to help androids find their place in a world not built for them. His tone softened when he spoke of North and Simon, and he laughed in describing how happy Josh had been since the protests.

“How are talks going with the president?” Connor asked.

Markus tipped his weight back on one heel. He wore the same outfit as the last time Connor saw him, his long tan coat riddled with bullet holes like badges of honour. “Slow, I’m afraid,” he said, “but that’s politics for you. I’d like to reach an agreement regarding our civil rights by the end of the year.”

Connor nodded. He traced a scrawl of graffiti on the barrier with his thumb, analysed the low temperature of the metal and the hundreds of fingerprints that marked it.

Snow creaked underfoot when Markus straightened up. “Actually,” he said, “I was hoping to have your help with that.”

Connor gave him a stern look. “I’m no legislator, Markus.”

Markus adjusted his collar against the wind. “No, but you _are_ a negotiator,” he said. “You worked with the Detroit Police Department. That gives your voice weight. You know the law in ways most deviants don’t, and you know androids in a way human lawyers never will. We need you in Washington.”

Connor folded in on himself, huddled over the railing with his beanie twisted in both restless hands. Washington? “I don’t know….”

Their conversation petered out. The muted voices of Simon, Josh, and North drifted up from the plaza, individual words lost beneath the moans and cracks of the frozen river. Connor felt the urge to unravel his hat, to flip his coin, _anything_ to distract himself from what Markus had asked of him.

Would Hank want him to be more involved in the movement? Would he be proud if Connor fought for android rights? And, if Connor agreed, how long could he expect the negotiations to take? Would Hank be okay on his own, if Connor flew to Washington?

Logic told him this final thought belittled Hank. The lieutenant had lived alone for years before Connor came along – and he wouldn’t be away _forever_. They could communicate digitally, with ease. Sumo could hold down the fort, no problem.

Still … he didn’t like the idea of Hank returning home from work to a dark, lonely house.

“I’m not sure I’m the best candidate for the job, Markus,” he said, eyes on a helicopter far in the distance. “I wasn’t programmed to debate with politicians for the rights of an entire species.”

Markus elbowed him jovially. “You weren’t programmed to have emotions, either,” he said with a smirk, “and you seem to be handling that okay so far.”

Connor glanced at him sidelong. The two shared a chuckle, and then watched the helicopter drone away in sociable silence.

After a moment of reflection, Markus clapped his fellow deviant on the back. The impact rattled Connor’s frame like the strike of a baseball bat, startling him from his worries. Before Connor could voice his displeasure, Markus swept close and pulled him into a firm embrace.

It felt very different to being hugged by Hank. Less enjoyable, though not because of Markus’s lack of padding. His grip was wrong, more formal, stiff and professional in ways Hank never was. The embrace ended almost as soon as it began, and Markus stepped aside with his body angled in the direction of the vigil.

“I should head back,” he said, in that ever-calm voice of his. “I’ll respect your decision either way, Connor, but … you could make a huge difference to the world we live in. Please say you’ll consider it, at least.”

Connor squeezed his hat tight, dark hair blustered loose from its usual slicked-down style. He kind of liked how it felt in his face. He licked his lips and nodded once, thirium pump beating hard and fast.

“I’ll consider it,” he said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/toastycyborg)


	4. Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor is away, Sumo is an angel, and Hank is slipping back to old habits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor characters present in this chapter: Sumo, Gavin Reed.
> 
> Warning: depression and dark thoughts ahead. I promise they won’t be a regular theme in this story, but this chapter got much more Hank-heavy than planned. My love to all of you who suffer from mental health problems. Please take care of yourselves.
> 
> Beta’d by **ametrineluckyfashion**. Thank you, as always.

 

DATE

 **NOV 29TH** , 2038

TIME

PM **19:22** :51

 

 

Connor was wearing that stupid fucking sweater.

Hank couldn’t believe it. He perched alone at a table in the precinct’s break room, nursing his fifth coffee of the day, mouth agape as he stared at the wall-mounted TV. There, on CTN News, was a photograph of his partner.

The image looked candid, capturing Connor halfway out of a black car with tinted windows. A handful of important-looking people in suits surrounded him, armed with briefcases while the paparazzi swarmed. Markus was there, too, dressed smartly and posed like he’d left the vehicle seconds ahead of Connor.

For the most part, Connor’s outfit matched those around him. Formal blazer, trim pants, neat tie – and then, the sweater. That godawful sweater from the charity store, the grey and neon green plaid one with red and yellow stripes. Its flashy colours stood out a mile in the photograph, and Hank could only guffaw at the sight.

The image made the headline below seem almost ludicrous: _Deviant Detective Breaks Stalemate in Talks over Android Rights_.

Who fucking knew?

Hank swirled his almost-empty paper cup, and grinned to himself. The racket from the bullpen outside the break room bounced off his good mood: telephones and chatter, curses from thugs in their holding cells, clattering keyboards and Fowler’s barked orders from the mouth of his office. Hank paid attention to none of it, in his own little world as news anchor Michael Brinkley said his piece.

“–same prototype detective model loaned by CyberLife to the Detroit Police Department earlier this month. The DPD has refused to comment, but the android group known as ‘Jericho’ assures progress is being made.”

The news feed cut to a recording of Markus, caught by reporters in an interview outside the White House. The camera framed his face uncomfortably close, no doubt shoved there by a scrum of pushy journalists. “The president has agreed to meet with us in person,” Markus said into a cluster of microphones. “We aim to revise current legislation surrounding androids, and discuss the implementation of new laws and civil rights. It’s a huge step forward on the path to equality, one I’m thrilled to be a part of.”

Hank thumbed the rim of his cup as the feed cut away again. A second video replaced the first, a distant shot of several people climbing the steps to the White House. At once, Hank spotted Connor among them; his upright walk was unmistakeable, even from behind. Markus strode beside Connor, the party rounded out by the blond and dark-skinned androids from the vigil stage and a few prominent congressmen. As the group began to filter into the building’s main entrance, CTN’s anchor spoke over the footage.

“President Warren is expected to make a statement tomorrow regarding the outcome of these talks,” he said. “Whatever the results, this will go down as one of the most important days in recent US history.”

Brinkley appeared on screen once the pre-recorded video ended. Straight-faced and serious, he moved on to his next story.

Hank tuned out, uninterested in the latest celebrity scandal. His gaze drifted down from the TV to the box of doughnuts on the shelf below, and the lopsided grin slid from his face. Sudden melancholy overshadowed him.

Fuck, he missed Connor.

Hank was happy for his partner. Truly, genuinely happy. The kid was off making history, independent and headstrong, fighting for a place in a world that once didn’t care he existed. It sounded like he was damn good at it, too, like _real_ progress lurked right around the corner. Hank couldn’t have been more proud of him.

That didn’t make it any easier to kick himself out of bed in the morning, to eat right and care for his dog and get to work on time.

He tried. _God_ , he tried – but everything seemed so much harder without Connor around. Hank didn’t have a computer brain that never forgot things. He got too tired to walk Sumo every day, and had an intrinsic hatred of cleaning. Self-care felt like such a waste of time, since there was no-one to judge him and he’d have to repeat the exact same task in a few days anyway.

More than that … the house felt so terribly big and empty without an extra person in it.

Hank missed having someone around who actually wanted to spend time with him, someone who didn’t mock how he hadn’t showered and reeked of booze. He drank at Jimmy’s more often, any excuse not to go home after a shift. He’d spent Thanksgiving at work, like he had for the last three years, though he did buy Sumo a special turkey dinner for a treat. The dog was extra-affectionate in Connor’s absence, but it wasn’t the same. The check-in texts Connor sent every day weren’t the same. Hank was miserable and tired and he missed his fucking partner.

He set down the dregs of his coffee and buried his face in his hands. _Christ, Anderson,_ he thought, _you’re whipped._

A familiar snigger drew Hank from his wretchedness. He bristled on instinct, shoulders tense, and twisted on his stool in time to watch Detective Gavin Reed saunter into the break room.

Defying what Hank once thought possible, Reed had gotten somehow more unpleasant to deal with in the fortnight since Connor kicked his ass. As his bruises and ego healed, Reed swore he’d had the android on the ropes in their tussle – but Hank knew better. It had taken Connor all of thirteen seconds to knock the prick out, in which time Gavin never landed a single hit.

Unable to seek payback, with Connor absent from the precinct, Reed seemed to have made it his life’s goal to needle Hank every chance he got. He poked and prodded for a violent reaction, baiting the lieutenant to punch him and cement his removal from the force.

Hank wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Well, if it isn’t the plastic-lover,” Reed sneered. Hank scowled at him through matted hair and Reed laughed at the pitiful sight, then made his cocky way to the coffee machine. “What’s the matter, old man? Pining for your little robot sidekick?”

Hank threw back the last of his drink and crushed the empty cup in one hand, teeth gritted over Reed’s use of such a slur. Machine, yes, but Connor had never been a _robot_.

Reed paused, his smirk shifting to false surprise while the coffee-maker hissed out steam behind him. “Oh, you _are_!” he said, in that schoolyard bully way of his. Reed folded his arms in a creak of leather, and leered hard enough to warp the scar on his nose. “Fuckin’ loser. It’s a glorified chunk of metal. Prick goes rogue and suddenly everyone’s bowing at its feet? Should shoot it in the head for assaulting an officer, is what I say.”

Hank rose from his stool. “Too bad for you, nobody gives a shit about what you say,” he sniped. He tossed his crumpled cup into the closest bin, and started on a beeline for the door.

Reed followed him, coffee forgotten. “Oh yeah? Remind me again who has a stable job in this precinct?”

“Fuck you.”

“Get in line.”

They crossed the bullpen to Hank’s desk, which he’d made a half-hearted effort to tidy in the last week. Less junk food cluttered the tabletop, fewer crumbs and stacks of disorganised paperwork. Hank sank into his creaky chair with a groan, still a little unsettled by the vacant booths on the walls where the idle android units used to stand.

Reed slung himself onto the corner of Hank’s desk, and fuck if that didn’t piss the lieutenant off. _That’s where Connor sits_ , snarled the reptile part of his brain. Hank shook it off, and bunkered down at his terminal to try and get some work done.

“Shame,” said Reed, gazing over nearby officers as they rushed between cases. The station somehow seemed both emptier and more busy at the same time, its human employees working around the clock to cover the manpower of the missing androids. Reed snorted. “The magazines are right, y’know. It really is better with a plastic. That’s the one damn thing they’re good for.”

Hank shot him a sidelong look, expression stormy. Something in Gavin’s tone rubbed him the wrong way, and Hank’s own intrigue infuriated him because he _knew_ it was on purpose. “The fuck are you talking about?”

Reed sneered at him once more. He pointed with one hand and made a ring shape with the thumb and forefinger of the other, and rammed them together in a crude gesture.

Immediately, Hank felt blood rush to his ears. He turned his chair away from Gavin and hunched over his keyboard, and pulled up the first unfinished report he spotted on the desktop.

Reed’s bark of laughter rang through the room. “I knew it,” he said. He shifted on the desk, closer to Hank, tipping his upper body forward to get a better view of the lieutenant’s face. “You’re unbelievable. Last month, you fucking hated androids – and now, you wanna screw ’em. Bet you can’t even get it up anymore, you sick bastard.”

Hank bit his tongue hard enough to taste copper. As much as he wanted to call out Reed’s hypocrisy, for calling _Hank_ ‘sick’ while implying to have fucked androids himself, he refused to give the man an inch. He knew Reed would tug and pull on any thread presented to him, unravelling it in a big shitty mess that could bury Hank’s career for good.

With an air of smug triumph, Reed hopped down from the desk. “That’s too bad, Anderson,” he said, “’cause your buddy’s not a Traci. It’s got nothing goin’ on downstairs, or didn’t you read its user manual?”

Hank’s hands froze over his keyboard, his desire to knock out Reed’s teeth overwhelmed by … he didn’t know what. Shock? Indignation? Embarrassment, over the indecent things he’d thought about whenever Connor bent down to play with Sumo or scrub the kitchen floor?

God damnit all.

Hank was attracted to Connor. Of course he was. Had been, low-key but building, ever since the guy bought him a drink in Jimmy’s Bar. In no universe could Hank see himself feeling no _pull_ toward the slender young thing who filled the void in his life so effortlessly. He couldn’t help it.

Underneath the resentment and the bitterness, Hank was lonely – and Connor eased that ache. Connor _cared_ , was handsome and sweet and everything the lieutenant idealised in a romantic partner.

So, yeah, Hank had thought about … about intimacy, with Connor. He’d fantasised. But it had never crossed his mind that the android might not be _equipped_ , in that department. It never occurred to him that CyberLife might not manufacture their prototype with all the bells and whistles, so to speak.

The matter of Connor’s own sexual desires was another train of thought altogether, a rabbit hole Hank didn’t have the courage or the patience to dive into right now.

Instead, he shut off his computer and pushed out his chair. He grabbed his coat from its backrest and shoved his arms down the sleeves, yanking the garment on with excessive force.

“Go fuck yourself, Reed,” he growled.

Gavin gave him one of those stupid winks, and strolled away looking immensely pleased with himself.

The urge to give chase and deck him was almost too strong to resist, but Hank managed to keep his fists under control. He strode into the captain’s office to tell Fowler he was done for the day, said goodnight to Chris in passing, and left the station.

For the first time that week, Hank didn’t drive to Jimmy’s after work. Neither did he head to Chicken Feed for a quick-and-easy dinner, or to any of the other local bars. Instead, soothed by the screams of heavy metal, he went home.

Fresh snow dusted the house in frosty white. Mounds of it piled high around the porch, hissing under the tyres of Hank’s car as he pulled into the driveway. The motion-sensitive light flared awake upon his arrival, cut a bright stripe through the gloom of evening. Hank killed the engine but didn’t leave the vehicle right away, his glazed stare pinned unseeing on a dashboard sticker.

Something Reed said had reminded him of an email from Fowler, forwarded back when CyberLife first assigned Connor to the DPD. Attached to the message was CyberLife’s RK800 user manual, which Fowler told Hank to at least skim to learn about his new partner.

Hank had deleted the email without opening it. Back then, he couldn’t give less of a shit. Now, he thought reading the manual would feel an awful lot like an invasion of Connor’s privacy … like browsing his private diary, or medical reports. If the thing was detailed enough to describe his _genitals_ , or lack thereof, fuck. Hank wanted nothing to do with it.

With a sigh, he got out of the car.

Sumo’s deep barks reached Hank before he even climbed the front step. He unlocked the door and had to fight to push it open, the huge dog right behind it and shoving back to get at his master. Hank forced his way into the house and crouched before Sumo to placate him, rubbing and shaking the beast’s jowls about with both hands.

“Miss me, boy?” he smiled.

Sumo licked between Hank’s fingers, hot tongue chasing the chill from his bones. Hank chuckled. He scratched the dog’s floppy ears and made to stand – but paused.

There was something caught in Sumo’s teeth.

Hank squinted at it, cupping Sumo’s large head to pull them face-to-face. Sumo panted happily at the attention, breath foul, his open mouth allowing Hank a clear view of….

A piece of yarn?

Dark grey and frayed, Hank had no idea where it could’ve come from. He fished the strand from Sumo’s teeth and stared at it so close he went cross-eyed, an uneasy weight in his belly. As if nothing were amiss, the dog yawned and lumbered away. Hank watched him warily, followed his furry friend into the hall and around the corner to Hank’s bedroom.

The wardrobe door hung open, a pile of clothes pooled on the floor where they’d slid off their hanger. Hank recognised the blue pullover as Connor’s. Dread spiked in his throat. Sumo sat down with a _thwump_ at the foot of the unmade bed, his front paws framing a small bundle of tattered wool.

When Hank recognised what it was, the bottom of his stomach fell out.

“Fuckin’ hell, _Sumo_ –!”

Connor’s beanie lay in shreds on the carpet, half-unravelled and covered in drool and teeth marks. The Saint Bernard shrank away from Hank’s raised voice, whimpering in confusion. Hank’s shocked anger vanished in a heartbeat, replaced by guilt as his dog cowered. With a bounce of creaky springs, he sank to sit on the edge of the bed and groaned.

Jesus Christ.

Sudden heat prickled in the backs of his eyes. His bottom lip quivered but Hank clenched his jaw before his body betrayed him further, fists balled in his lap while Sumo whined at his feet.

It was just a hat. Just a fucking hat. They could buy another, no problem. A better one, one with more colour and personality than the drab old thing Connor wore around town to hide his LED.

So, why did it feel like he’d been punched in the gut?

Hank doubled over where he sat, elbows stabbing into his thighs as he cradled his face in both palms. His hair hung greasy and limp, and he could smell himself through his clothes, but he didn’t care. Dark thoughts snaked into his mind, thoughts of shame and worthlessness and _how can you protect Connor, when you can’t even look after his fucking hat?_

Depression was a cruel, heartless beast. It held you down, smothered you and whispered terrible untruths. Hank’s was the kind that never fully went away, but pretended to be dormant. Fed by the weight of daily doubts and grievances, it grew and grew until some stupid little problem snagged the tripwire and made everything explode.

Connor had helped Hank out of his most recent slump, but this past week without him had been tough. Hank knew he was slipping. The ruined beanie was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and all he could think to do was lose himself in the case of Black Lamb he’d stashed under the kitchen sink.

He missed Connor.

He hated how useless he felt, how old and tired and _lonely_ he’d become.

He hated how he looked, the pounds he couldn’t shed despite his best efforts to clean up his act.

He hated that he still couldn’t bring himself to set foot Cole’s room, three fucking years after the accident.

_He missed Connor._

The damp chill of Sumo’s nose pressed itself to Hank’s shin, and the lieutenant managed a sad smile. Sumo helped. The pooch didn’t understand what he’d done wrong, didn’t know any better. Hank slid off the bed to kneel on the floor, and wrapped his arms around the Saint Bernard. It was a little like hugging a tree … a fluffy, warm, slobbery tree. Some of the despair lifted from Hank’s shoulders, the dog’s familiar smell a soothing comfort.

“Sorry for yellin’, boy….”

Hank pushed his nose into Sumo’s shaggy coat, eyes squeezed shut, enveloping the worried dog with limbs that craved physical contact. Sumo’s strong heartbeat thudded through him, relaxed him. Soft fur snagged in Hank’s beard like Velcro; Sumo pawed at Hank’s thighs and mouthed at his ear, licked the wild sideburns in unadulterated love. The dog’s tail thudding against the wardrobe door made up the only sound in the dark house.

In the back of his mind, it occurred to Hank that maybe Sumo had torn the hat apart in search of Connor – as if he thought the android were somehow hiding inside it. The thought almost made Hank laugh. He exhaled long and weary into Sumo’s neck, and treasured the gentle whine he got in response.

“I know, boy. miss him, too.”

 

~

 

The days came and went, no fanfare to be found in the Anderson household. Nothing changed; people still killed each other, Reed stayed an asshole, and Connor continued to send his daily check-in texts from Washington. Hank soldiered on as best he could, the thought of the android’s to-be-arranged return keeping him together at the seams.

On the first morning of December, Hank woke to the thud of his cell phone vibrating itself off the bedside cabinet.

Sumo was there in an instant, sniffing at where the phone continued to buzz facedown on the carpet. The dog seldom left Hank’s side at home, these days. He pawed at the side of the bed, rumbling in his throat to get his owner’s attention.

Hank groaned from beneath the sheets, at the mercy of a vicious hangover. If the call was Fowler trying to hurry his ass to work, he could go fuck himself.

The buzzing sound changed, muffled in a different way than by carpet. The mattress dipped at one side and then rocked as Sumo clambered onto it, and something small and solid dropped onto the pillow. Reluctantly, Hank peeled back the sheets to squint out.

Harsh daylight burned his dry eyes, streaming into the room through curtains he’d forgotten to close. On his pillow lay his phone, still abuzz, its corner wet with dog drool. Sumo sat proud by Hank’s side atop the bed, his weight pulling the covers taut over the lump of his master’s body.

“All right, all right,” Hank griped. He swatted at the canine’s face with the strength of a wet paper towel, and rolled over once Sumo jumped down and freed the blankets. With a huge yawn, and without looking at the caller ID, the lieutenant answered his cell and flopped flat on his back. “’Lo?”

“Hank?”

Hank’s sore eyes snapped open. Even in his bleary state, exhausted and still a tad drunk on whiskey, he’d recognise that goofy voice anywhere. “Connor…?”

“Hello. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Hank stared up at the cracked ceiling in something like wonder. He felt dazed. Sumo panted from the floor, standing guard and honest-to-god grinning at the muffled sound of Connor’s voice.

Hank cleared his throat to imitate a man who’d been conscious for hours. “Nah, I’m up,” he lied, and scrubbed a hand over his rough face. Another cough for good measure. “S’everything okay? You never call.”

When Connor spoke again, Hank could _hear_ the smile on his lips. “Everything is fine, Lieutenant,” he said. His words pooled like honey in Hank’s ear, audible ambrosia. “I wanted to let you know that I’ll be home soon.”

A rose of warmth bloomed in Hank’s core, and he sat up. The bed sheets pooled at his waist, exposed his bare chest and arms to the morning chill. He glanced to the clock on the cabinet. Twelve fifteen. Ah, scratch ‘morning’. Oops.

At Hank’s silence, Connor continued on the other end of the phone. “Current weather models project a ninety-minute flight from Washington DC to Detroit,” he stated. “My plane leaves in ten.”

Hank gulped. “Oh, you mean _soon_ soon,” he said. He swept wide eyes over the state of the bedroom. Crumpled clothes and empty beer bottles littered the floor, the waste bin buried beneath dirty tissues and chocolate wrappers. The rest of the house fared no better. “Fuck. Okay. Uh … want me to pick you up from the airport?”

There was a pause across the line, long and suspicious, and Hank remembered too late that he was supposed to be at work. He kicked free of the blankets and staggered to his feet, head spinning with drink and the mile-long list of things he had to do before the android returned.

“I plan to take a cab,” said Connor. “Hank … are you unwell?”

The question threw Hank for a loop, and he paused halfway through pulling on yesterday’s jeans. “Whuh?”

“You sound rather stuffy and were coughing earlier, and I can hear Sumo breathing. You’re at home.”

Humiliation bunched Hank’s shoulders up to his ears. On the bright side, the cringe gave him an easy place to slot his phone hands-free while he fastened his trousers. “I’m, uh,” he said, on the hunt for a shirt in the dreadful floordrobe. Sumo watched him flounder with interest. “I’m taking a mental health day. No big deal.”

He seized an old band Tee and threw it over his head, and lumbered around into the kitchen to grab some trash bags. Upon reaching the cabinet where they lived, however, he hesitated. If Connor could hear Sumo panting in the background, he’d sure as hell hear Hank scrambling to gather garbage. Best wait.

“I see,” came Connor’s concerned reply. Several stiff seconds passed, in which Hank began to sweat. “All right. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

He hung up.

Hank stared at the blank screen of his phone a moment, the cold kitchen tile biting his bare feet. Sumo whined from his empty food bowl. Hank then slapped his cell down on the counter, threw back some Advil, and hurried to pour the dog some kibble before waging war with his bombsite of a house.

The trash went first. Hank hadn’t noticed how much had accumulated in Connor’s week away, pizza boxes and beer cans and leftover Chinese. It took him a good fifteen minutes to find it all. Sumo trotted after him for a while, then lay down under the radiator once Hank tripped over him one too many times. Next, Hank filled the sink to soak the mountain of crusty plates while he ran around with the vacuum cleaner. Connor made it look so quick and easy, but the lieutenant felt out of breath after a single room. Curse human stamina.

He knew his work was sloppy. Connor would see the dust on the bookshelves and the stripes of floor Hank missed, the bare state of the fridge and the takeout menus that had reappeared on the counter. But Hank wanted him to think he’d at least made an _effort_ , and not wallowed in his own filth like a total slob.

Twenty minutes before Connor’s plane was due to land, Hank gave up on cleaning the dishes and jumped into the shower. He scrubbed quickly, rinsed mould from the shampoo bottle and washed his hair for the first time in what felt like years. He still felt heavy and tired, but the stubborn need to prove himself a capable adult outweighed his ennui for the moment.

Skin pink and raw, Hank dried himself and dressed in a clean vest and shorts. The laundry basket had long overflowed, but there wasn’t time to make a dent in it. He peered into the bathroom mirror and winced at the overgrown state of his beard, and grabbed the scissors from the cabinet to tidy it up.

Without making a single snip, he set down the scissors and stared hard into the eyes of his reflection.

 _What’s the point?_ said a voice in his head. _Connor will know either way._

He’d know Hank couldn’t take care of himself. He’d know Hank was a mess, had fallen back on old habits and laziness and still sometimes thought about the revolver hidden away in the kitchen drawer.

Hank felt _hollow_.

He made his way into the kitchen, and sat down at the sticky table. The photo of Cole lay facedown before him, next to an open bottle of Black Lamb. Hank touched neither, too weary even to drink, and lost himself in his memories.

When he let himself into the house, half an hour later, this was exactly where Connor found him.

Connor’s small suitcase brushed a stripe in the dust where he set it down, just inside the front door. He said nothing, but dumped his cache to analyse the living room in a matter of microseconds. He detected all the signs of recent frantic activity, the smell of bleach and sweat and air freshener harsh in his olfactory sensors. Sumo shambled over and reared up to plant his paws on Connor’s stomach, and Connor supported his considerable weight with ease. He gave the dog a good scratch, then made his silent way to the kitchen table.

A scan showed Hank’s blood pressure on the far side of high, his pulse slowed by alcohol and long hair hanging wet about slumped shoulders. Connor hovered over him, worried for the sorry excuse of a man of fifty-three. Hank didn’t look up at him, didn’t respond to him at all. Connor cast a careful gaze over the tabletop, his LED yellow, and frowned at the bottle of whiskey by Hank’s clenched fist.

Without a word, Connor stood Cole’s picture upright.

At the sight of his son’s smile, frozen in time, a sob worked its way out of Hank. Connor dropped at once to his knees on the kitchen floor, and drew the man into a tight embrace.

“I’m here, Hank,” he soothed. “I’m home.”

Hank crumbled into him, gripped his partner as if his life depended on it. In a way, he supposed it did. Connor petted Hank’s damp hair and rubbed his back through the ratty vest, buried his own face in Hank’s broad shoulder. Sumo padded into the room, whining in his throat, and pushed his blunt head into his master’s lap. Hank sobbed harder, his tears absorbed by the fabric of Connor’s blazer.

Connor _ached_ inside. He wished there was something he could do to erase his partner’s pain – to somehow take it into himself, so Hank wouldn’t have to feel it anymore. He let the dermal layer of his hands melt away, and pressed the white plasteel beneath flush to Hank’s skin.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t interface with the human. He couldn’t access Hank’s mind and steal away his bad thoughts, as much as he wanted to. All Connor could do was hold him. He would hold on for as long as Hank needed, his mechanical joints immune to the discomfort of kneeling on a hard tile floor.

Three minutes and seven seconds later, Hank shifted in Connor’s arms. Connor lessened his grip and Hank pulled back, faced away from the android in clear embarrassment. Hank’s body temperature had risen while he cried, pulse fluttering visibly in his neck.

“Sorry,” he muttered. Hank cleared his throat and swiped the tear tracks from his cheeks, sniffed loud and wet into the back of his wrist. “I, uh … welcome home, I guess.”

Connor smiled sadly, and got to his feet. Sumo made to rise with him, but obeyed Connor’s command of _stay_ without protest. Connor took the bottle of whiskey from the table and moved it somewhere out of sight, made Hank a mug of tea, and rolled up his sleeves to finish washing the dishes.

The porcelain clinks and sloshes of water rolled over Hank like a warm ocean tide, untangling the knots in his frame. He cupped both hands around his mug of tea and blew apart its steam trails, and took a sip. Sweet, no sugar held back for once. The thoughtful gesture made Hank tear up again, and he lost track of time.

The next thing he knew, Connor had stepped into his line of sight again. In the android’s left hand hung the torn-off lid of a pizza box he’d fished from the trash, and in his right he gripped the bathroom scissors. His expression held a gentle expectancy, head cocked in unspoken request.

Hank sat back in his chair, unsure what the android wanted. Connor laid the piece of cardboard on the table and manipulated Hank to lean over it, then sat in the chair beside him. He readied the scissors and tipped back Hank’s head, and began to trim his beard with the delicacy of a man handling a new-hatched chick.

Unable to meet his partner’s warm eyes, Hank closed his own. The coarse snips filled the quiet kitchen, the patter of cut hair falling to the cardboard. Sumo licked his lips in Hank’s lap, drooling steadily onto his shorts.

When Hank could stand the silence no longer, he cleared his throat. “How’d it go with the president?”

Connor’s sure hand faltered on his jaw, a longer interlude between the last snip and the next. “I dislike politics,” he said, tone dry.

Hank laughed through his nose, keeping his mouth and cheeks as still as possible so close to the scissors. “Said everyone who’s not a politician, ever,” he managed to joke. “Hell, I know some _politicians_ who hate politics.”

He sensed Connor’s attempt to make eye-contact. The android shifted in his chair, and angled Hank’s head to the side for easier access to one sideburn. Sumo gave a small huff and withdrew from the tangle of legs, and made his way back to his spot under the radiator.

“It went well, I think,” said Connor. _Snip._ A smooth thumb brushed under Hank’s ear. _Snip, snip._ “I’m not permitted to discuss it in detail, but, progress was made. Markus is optimistic that androids will be able to seek paid employment by the end of the month.”

“Just in time for Christmas,” said Hank. “Bet retail workers’ll be thrilled for the extra help.”

Connor hummed in agreement, and turned Hank’s head to face the opposite direction. Hank focused on the feel of his hands. They were a little cooler than a human’s, too pristine in their lack of fingerprints, but they felt good raking through the hairs of his beard. Connor’s touch made his skin tingle, his presence and concern filling some of the emptiness inside Hank.

This was nice. A gentle moment, easy and peaceful. Intimate, even. Hank wouldn’t let anyone else sit so close to him, especially in a depressive episode. The ennui and bleakness of existence remained; Connor being home didn’t _cure_ it, of course. Nothing could ‘fix’ Hank, not completely. But … he made it a little less suffocating.

“I …” said Connor, all of a sudden.

He’d dropped his voice, sounded so small and vulnerable that Hank couldn’t help but open his eyes. He met Connor’s and time seemed to stutter between them, a spark of something bright shooting up both of their spines. Connor looked away first, awkward and abashed as he clipped a few more straggly strands from Hank’s beard.

“I’m sorry, too,” he said. “I didn’t know I would be away for so long.”

Hank swallowed. He became aware of Connor’s shin pressed against his, of the stray curl that hung disobedient from Connor’s hairline. On the android’s opposite temple, fragments of red began to circle around his yellow LED. Hank took comfort in how the ring refused to turn solid scarlet; at least _one_ of them had some degree of control over their emotions.

How ironic that said person was _Connor_.

“You’ve got nothin’ to apologise for,” Hank assured him. He slid a hand from the tabletop, and gave Connor’s knee a squeeze. “Going to Washington was important. I’m glad you went. You did great, Con.”

A smile twitched on Connor’s lips, and he lowered the scissors. “Have you called me that before, Lieutenant?” he said.

Hank squinted at him, struggling to remember what he’d said in his haze. The nickname had slipped out on accident. He tried to recall if he’d used it in the past – then scowled when he instead remembered that Connor had a supercomputer for a brain. The little shit recorded every fucking thing Hank said, which meant his question just now was meant to tease.

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” he said, without vitriol.

Connor smirked.

Hank ran a palm over his jaw. His beard felt much better groomed, neater than anything he could’ve managed on his own with a pair of scissors. Connor hadn’t altered the style of it, but trimmed it back to a fraction shorter than when they’d first met. Hank briefly considered replacing his electric clippers, but realised – if he did – they’d have no excuse to do _this_ again.

Maybe not, then.

“Go unpack,” he said gruffly. “Take a load off. I’ll … I’ll get dressed for work.”

Connor rose to his feet with the grace of a dancer, expression disapproving and aloof. “No,” he said, “ _you_ will lie down and watch TV. You’re having a mental health day, remember? I’ve already emailed Captain Fowler for time off.”

Connor then winked – _winked_ – quick and suave, and left Hank to gawp after him while he strolled to collect his suitcase from the hall.

With a huff, and the energy of a cold crocodile, Hank heaved himself upright and plodded through to the lounge. He flopped down onto the sofa, sprawled out sideways with one leg raised on the cushions and the other dangling free. Sumo leaped up beside him at once; Hank let the heavy dog sprawl across him, and switched on the TV to channel-surf.

After a full minute, Hank bit his lip. “Hey, Connor?”

“Yes, Lieutenant?” came the half-yelled response from the bedroom.

Hank swallowed his pride. “Sumo chewed up your beanie. I had to throw it out.”

As he unzipped his suitcase and tipped its contents onto the messy bed, Connor smiled to himself. “It was just a hat, Hank,” he called. “Don’t worry about it.”

Just a hat, nothing more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this chapter. It's an important one to me, because I recently underwent therapy for my own anxiety and depression. I've noticed that I do tend to connect to similarly afflicted characters, like Hank here and Saitama from _One Punch Man_. It's my hope that I was able to convey some of those feelings, without getting _too_ dark.
> 
> Side note: I guess Connor fighting Reed in *that* chapter of the game isn’t _technically_ part of a pacifist run ... but, it’s too badass a moment to skip.
> 
>  
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/toastycyborg)


	5. A Rose, by Any Other Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor cooks, experiences new emotions, and makes a pivotal choice about his appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor characters present in this chapter: Sumo.
> 
> Beta'd by the fabulous **ametrineluckyfashion** and the phenomenal **bloodsbane**. Thanks again!

~

 

Connor trimming Hank’s beard became a weekly occurrence.

It gave them chance to talk freely; a quiet moment to share idle remarks, dark humour, and curious observations without pressure or fear of judgement. Easy, inconsequential banter. This precious bubble of one-on-one time was for them and them alone. No topic lay off-limits, though Connor knew better than to prod certain hornets’ nests. These conversations brought the two men closer, more comfortable and familiar as they learned how the other’s mind worked.

They owed much of it to Connor’s new upgrade.

Now that androids were _customers_ instead of soulless products, CyberLife had begun to offer software packages at reduced prices. With Hank’s permission, Connor bought himself their ‘home-psychologist’ add-on. He wanted to help his partner with his mental health – and since Hank refused to see an actual therapist, this was the next best thing. Connor could offer Hank expert advice from the comfort of his own couch, could pick apart Hank’s issues and guide his first steps down the road to recovery.

If it armed the lieutenant in the war against his demons, Connor would have paid any amount for his upgrade. The discount was a happy coincidence.

The new software had the unintended side-effect of aiding Connor with his own emotions. The weeks spent in Washington had been difficult for him, as well. Markus and Josh were good enough company … but while Connor had come to see them as friends, they weren’t _Hank_. Connor walked himself and his partner through breathing exercises and stress management techniques, taught him to identify and challenge harmful thoughts. Connor proudly watched his partner improve, bit by bit, and felt more competent in himself as the days rolled by. They redecorated the house, brightened the walls with a lick of paint and put up pictures of Cole and Sumo.

After over a full month as a deviant, Connor finally felt _real_.

Positive as it was, this growth didn’t curb the anxiety caused by how he _still_ couldn’t go back to work.

Markus’s new laws were put into place by the middle of December, and Detroit’s infrastructure shook off dust as many androids returned to their jobs. The situation was far from stable, however. Unemployment had already been at a record high, before businesses suddenly found themselves required to compensate deviants for their labour. Hate crimes exploded as paid jobs went to ‘machines’ instead of humans, and the DPD drowned in a flood of murdered or assaulted androids.

As much as he yearned to be out there with Hank, seeking justice for his brethren, bureaucracy backed Connor into a corner. He was forced to stay home and sit on his hands, infuriatingly idle until Fowler could find a way to hire a detective with no official qualifications.

Equal rights made a fine double-edged sword, it seemed.

Connor knew his position differed from other deviants’. Most worked low-requirement roles, like public groundskeepers and retail staff and waste disposal services. Standard police androids had it harder, at first, before the DPD devised a test that ensured those units were fit to serve as beat cops. Even so, they acted primarily as back-up. They supported human officers in the field, when not saddled with deskwork.

Connor’s job, on the other hand, was much more specialised. Homicide detectives were expected, at bare minimum, to earn law enforcement certifications, enter and graduate from a police academy, and climb their way up the ranks through more tests and rigorous training in their chosen field. They needed years of experience under their belts, promoted through recommendations and an exemplary case-closure rate.

Connor had done none of those things.

As a machine on-loan to the DPD, he hadn’t needed to. CyberLife had pre-loaded him with all the knowledge a homicide detective might need, engineered him to be fast and smart and observant. He possessed unparalleled processing power, with wireless access to everything from fingerprint databases to behavioural analyses. He was perfect for the job, because he was _made_ for it – but none of this meant a thing to Fowler’s superiors, now that androids and humans stood on even ground.

Now, Connor had to follow the same rules an aspiring _human_ detective would … and in the eyes of the law, he was an untrained civilian. Fowler would have an easier time promoting Gavin Reed to district attorney, than he would convincing his peers to hire Connor.

One day, as Hank prepared to head to the station, the lieutenant asked if Connor even wanted his old job back. Police work was Connor’s intended function, sure, but there’d be nothing to stop him from seeking employment elsewhere. It’d be easier, Hank said. _You could volunteer at that charity shop_ , he’d said, _or dog-sit for people on vacation_.

Connor had readily answered that he’d prefer police work, then ushered Hank out the door before he could make himself late.

Connor hadn’t lied. He enjoyed the challenge of murder investigations, the mental stimuli and the satisfaction of solving cases. The thought of pursuing that career with Hank as his partner made his thirium run hot in anticipation. He couldn’t imagine doing anything else with his life, now that he had one to spend as he wished.

The captain would secure his position. Connor felt sure of it. He was too useful an asset to the department for Fowler to let him go. He’d be crammed once more in Hank’s ancient car any day now, and could finally get back to work.

 

~

 

DATE

 **DEC 19TH** , 2038

TIME

PM **20:14** :43

 

 

_< HANK ANDERSON> home in 10, traffic’s shit_

The text message burst like a firework before Connor’s eyes, making his lashes flutter and his LED strobe yellow. The whine of auditory feedback that came with it locked his joints in place, paralysed him where he knelt on the kitchen floor. This brief immobility allowed Sumo full access to the treats in Connor’s palm: the dog lapped at his fingers with zeal, gobbling down the biscuits Connor had meant to feed him for rolling over on command.

Once he could move again, one-point-nine seconds later, Connor answered Sumo’s triumphant grin with a sigh of defeat. They would master this trick someday, ‘old dog’ idioms be damned.

Connor wiped his drool-slick hand on the thigh of his jeans, and rose from the hard tile without discomfort. He glanced around the lamp-lit kitchen, then responded to Hank’s message with a text of his own.

_< RK800 #313 248 317 - 51> Thank you for letting me know. Dinner will be ready by the time you get back. Please drive safely._

The second stab of feedback wasn’t as bad, now that he knew to expect it. Most androids didn’t experience such glitches when receiving or transmitting data packets. Connor guessed he owed this particular bug to his nature as a prototype. CyberLife mustn’t have ironed out all the kinks, when quadruple-encrypting his communication functions. It wasn’t the worst sensation he’d ever felt, by far – having his ‘heart’ ripped out of his stomach took that prize – but it was the closest thing to pain he could comprehend.

In any case, Connor knew not to expect a reply from his partner. Instead, he gave Sumo an adoring pat on the head and crossed the room to wash his hands. The dog followed him, expectant tongue out and claws clicking on the clean tile.

Time to get to work. Tonight’s dinner would be a treat; Connor couldn’t _wait_ to watch Hank sink his teeth into it.

From the freezer, the android pulled a fat disk of pink meat wrapped in cellophane. A homemade hamburger patty, shaped from lean minced beef and onion chunks and flavourful spices. He drizzled olive oil into a pan and set it on the stovetop at medium heat, and darted about gathering other ingredients while the liquid warmed.

As much as Hank loved eating at the Chicken Feed truck, Connor judged the food there to be unfit for human consumption. The calorie count in a soda alone was astronomical. Rather than deprive his partner of his favourite meal, though, Connor hoped to appease him with something that tasted even better. He’d done his best today to replicate Gary’s signature burger – but with less than half the fats, sodium, and cholesterol of the real thing.

Connor dropped his unwrapped patty into the pan. It hit the hot oil with a hiss, and the rich scent of sizzling beef drifted through the kitchen. Sumo pawed at Connor’s calf with urgency. Connor politely informed him that dogs should not eat onions, and fetched a seldom-used chopping board from its drawer to slice a tomato. He offered Sumo a piece of that instead, but the dog turned up his nose at the red fruit and shambled away.

While he arranged bottles of sauce atop the dining table, Connor hummed an aimless tune to himself. He focused on the volume and vibrations in his throat over the pitch and notes, more interested in creating a pleasant audio waveform than actual music a human might listen to.

Well, most humans. Hank listened to _anything_ , he thought with fondness.

A timer pinged in Connor’s head. He flipped the browned burger patty and grabbed a clean plate from the cupboard, and arranged the lower parts of the burger in a colourful tower. Bun base, crisp lettuce, fresh pickles, red onion. Perfect. He counted holes in the lattice room-divider until the meat was cooked, then transferred the glistening patty onto the stack. He topped it with a slice of low-fat cheese, the tomato slices, more lettuce, and a sesame seed-encrusted bun lid, and then carried the pretty plate to Hank’s usual seat at table.

Right on time, as Connor nudged the bun lid to sit symmetrically, light swept through the lounge window. Hank’s car pulled into the driveway outside, gravel and ice crunching under its tyres.

Sumo barked from beneath the radiator, a deep sound Connor associated with happiness. The android pulled a beer and a pouch of Thirium 310 from the fridge, pried off their caps with his bare fingers, and placed the alcohol next to Hank’s dinner. The thirium, he poured into a mug that Hank had bought for him online. It was a novelty item, printed with a tired old meme: an image of a crown above the text ‘KEEP CALM, I’M A CONNOR'.

A set of keys rattled outside the front door, and Connor set down his mug and straightened his pullover. He liked this feeling – the fuzzy warmth, anticipation of Hank’s arrival, a sense of completeness and belonging that filled the nooks and crannies between his biocomponents.

Hank let himself into the house with a noise of approval, likely able to smell the food from the porch. He looked exhausted, windswept and dusted with snow. Hank shucked off his coat and shoes and took an indirect route to the kitchen, passing by the radiator to warm himself and give Sumo’s ears a scratch.

“Welcome home,” Connor said with a smile. He gestured to the table. “I tried something new for dinner. Please, let me know what you think.”

As per their standard after-work greeting, Hank walked right up to Connor. He hugged the android for three-point-eight seconds, and gave him two light slaps on the back in thanks. Connor returned the gesture by squeezing Hank’s middle before the larger man stepped away, and the duo pulled out chairs to sit and dine.

Hank turned his plate without lifting it to inspect the photo-worthy burger. The scrape of ceramic on wood grain lured Sumo over to the table, and the big dog settled himself with both front paws draped over Hank’s shoes.

“Holy shit, Con,” said Hank, his sleepy eyes widening and bright as stars. “You made this for me?”

A dialogue prompt to tease crossed Connor’s mind. He indulged it on wry impulse, thumbing the handle of his novelty mug. “Well, it would be a waste of time and resources to cook for myself.”

Some of the _awestruck_ faded from Hank’s expression, and he let out a good-humoured huff. “Yeah, yeah, smartass,” he said. He laid a napkin in his lap and tucked his hair behind his ears, little efforts at cleanliness that made Connor’s processors stutter. “Shut it and pass the ketchup.”

Connor complied, struck with a strange desire to swing his feet under the table.

When Hank took his burger in both hands, Connor couldn’t help but stare. He held a breath he didn’t need, stopped blinking to scrutinise every micro-expression in Hank’s reaction. He’d cooked for his partner before, many times – but this felt different, somehow. This _meant_ something. Hank’s love of the Chicken Feed recipe was sacred, and Connor felt abruptly anxious for trying to outdo it.

Hank bit down in a crunch of lettuce, tomato juice wetting his lips. He exhaled steam from the meat, wiped stray ketchup from the corner of his mouth with a thumb and licked it clean. Connor’s tongue twitched, analysis fluid pooling in his own mouth at the urge to take a sample. He watched like a starved vulture as Hank chewed his bite, mechanical insides thrumming.

Hank’s posture sagged while he ate, elbows thudding to the tabletop as his shoulders went slack. His eyes fell shut and he let out a low, appreciative moan – one that almost made Connor choke on the excess fluid in his mouth.

“Jesus, Con,” said Hank, muffled around his sample. “I’m gonna fuckin’ cry.”

Connor stayed ramrod-straight in his chair, shocked by his body’s reaction to _Hank’s_ reaction. Androids didn’t choke. Confusing errors left him stunned, warnings of a core heat increase and thirium pump irregularity. He swallowed more carefully and forced himself to focus. “Is the meal to your liking?”

To Connor’s surprise – and immense pride – Hank _did_ have tears in his eyes when he set down the burger. “Gary’s gonna have to step up his game, to win back the title of ‘best burger in Detroit’,” he said. He dragged a sleeve across his face, humming. “ _Fuck_. What’s in this?”

Connor partitioned his processing power into thirds to respond. He used one percentage to list his ingredients aloud, while the second planned improvements to the recipe. Despite positive feedback, he wanted to do even better next time. With his third chunk of brainpower, Connor saved a transcript of his bizarre physical response to Hank’s moan. Then he pushed it out of his mind, filed it away for later analysis.

“I was able to make four patties from a pound packet of minced beef,” he concluded. “The others are in the freezer. Each burger contains five hundred and twenty-nine calories, which is a sixty-eight-point-five percent decrease from the Chicken Feed recipe. I could shave off a few more by making my own bread buns, and improve nutrition by swapping the lettuce for spinach.”

Hank gave a guarded hum, exhaling through his nose as he took a second huge bite. The breath and his moustache dislodged several sesame seeds from the bun, sent them skittering to the table with a sound like dropped pins. Sumo lifted his head at the noise. Connor pressed a fingertip to the seed that bounced closest to him, just hard enough that it stuck to his skin. He almost couldn’t feel it on his pseudo-flesh, less than a tenth the weight of a grain of rice. Connor examined it for a spell, then reached forward to drop the speck back atop Hank’s burger.

“Gee, thanks,” Hank smirked. “Whole dish would’ve been ruined without that one seed.”

“Of course,” said Connor.

As Hank took another bite, the android remembered that he too had sat down for a ‘meal’. He picked up his mug of Thirium 310 and raised it to his lips, the first sip cool and flavourless on his palate. Idly, he wondered what it tasted like. The old CyberLife had not deigned to give androids that particular sense. Connor’s tongue could break down and analyse oral samples, yes – but the results were _data_ , a text box of chemical compositions. Facts and figures, ones and zeroes.

If he could taste as humans did, Connor wondered if he would enjoy consuming thirium as much as Hank treasured his burger.

When they first started living together, Hank had compared Connor’s fuel pouches to IV bags. They looked so similar, it had been weeks before Hank stopped balking when he spotted one in the fridge. Out of politeness, Connor tried to drink only when his partner wasn’t around. Fuel or not, he understood why it might upset Hank to watch someone guzzle their own blood like soda.

The first time Hank caught Connor in the act, though, drinking as fast as he could over the kitchen sink before breakfast, the lieutenant had laughed.

“Use a mug, already,” he’d said, half-asleep and scratching at his belly. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll get used to it. You don’t gotta slurp on the pouch like it’s a fuckin’ Capri-Sun.”

Connor still found it strange to refuel himself from a cup. It was unnecessary, an extra step in what should have been a simple process. But life, he had learned, was rarely simple. It was messy and convoluted for no reason, and Connor liked the thought that Hank wouldn’t have bought him his own mug if he still saw Connor as a _machine_.

Hank set down his beer with a clink. “So … how was your day?”

Connor cradled his mug, as a human might hold a hot beverage to warm their hands. Hank seldom initiated small-talk. It usually meant he had something important to say, but didn’t want to dive straight into it. Connor’s predictive software kicked in, began to plot out a myriad of potential topics and dialogue trees. He shut off the process with a blink.

“Productive,” he said, voice neutral. “Aside from preparing the burgers and everyday chores, I gave Sumo a bath. We discovered that he prefers when I sit in the water with him. I also tended to the succulents throughout the house, so you needn’t feed them for at least a week.”

Hank toyed with the last quarter of his burger. A slice of tomato protruded from the layers, pulled loose when his teeth had failed to cleanly sever its skin. “You got _in_ the bath with Sumo?” he said.

Connor smiled at the memory. “It allows for easier washing and petting,” he explained. “Also, foregoing clothes means they don’t get wet when he fusses or shakes himself down. How was your day, Hank?”

Hank gave a start, pulled from the mental image of his dignified partner and the hundred and seventy-pound Saint Bernard wrestling nude in the bathtub. He took a swig of beer and clapped his hands free of sesame seeds, then picked up what remained of his dinner. “Had an interestin’ chat with Captain Fowler, this afternoon,” he said. “About you, coming back to work.”

Something tightened in Connor’s chest. _Hope_. “What did he say?”

Hank nodded. “It’s a ball-ache of a situation,” he said, and raised the last chunk of burger to his mouth. He didn’t devour it, but contemplated the bread-bound meat and vegetables as if they held the secrets of the universe. “The board knows you don’t need any training, purpose-built android and all … but they still want certificates on file before they give you a badge and a title. Can’t go on word of mouth, they say. Fuckin’ bureaucrats.”

Connor released his drink to link his hands in his lap instead. The coarse denim of his jeans rasped against sensitive fingers, grounded him. “I’m to sit an exam?”

“A few, actually,” said Hank. His face scrunched up in obvious disgust. “High school-level diploma or GED, reading and writing, driving test, bullshit physical fitness exam, oral board interview, psych eval. All the standard crap to get into a police academy. CyberLife sent us a record of your prototype trials, so you won’t need to put in any hours for training. _Then_ there’s the state law enforcement licensing exam … another dumbass fucking hurdle, since, y’know, it’s already all in your head.”

The venom in Hank’s voice – most notable in the hard ‘g’ of his final swear – made Connor’s fingers twitch atop his thighs. He wanted to touch Hank’s arm, to calm and reassure him. “They just want to make it all official,” he said, tone placating. “I understand the necessity.”

Hank heaved a sigh, and popped the last of the burger into his mouth. He sat back and chewed aggressively, his arms crossed and glare angled off to the side. “Such a waste of time,” he said. “You’re the most qualified detective there is.”

“Paperwork keeps the joints lubricated, Hank,” Connor told his grumbling partner. “It’s only fair. If I wish to be treated the same way a human would, I have to follow the same rules. That means following standard procedure, as much as possible.”

The lieutenant cast him a calculating look, then sighed again. This one was lighter than the first, acquiescent but not happy about it. “You’re right …” he said, then snorted. “Knowing you, you could blast through all those exams in a single day.”

Connor cocked his head, warmed from the inside by his partner’s praise. “I’m pleased you have such faith in my abilities.”

Hank rolled his eyes, then pushed out his chair and stood with a groan. Sumo rumbled his disapproval, robbed of his shoe-shaped pillows. Hank collected his dirty plate from the table and started toward the sink, which Connor had filled with water earlier to soak the frying pan.

Connor shot to his feet before Sumo could claim them as his new headrest. He refused to let Hank wash up, after a full day at work. Connor chased him to the counter and stole the ketchup-stained plate, slotting himself into the narrow space between Hank and the sink.

Hank stopped walking a second later – inferior human reaction times – and the two found themselves nose-to-nose with Connor backed against the counter.

“Wh–”

Hank went still as the android all but materialised before him, blue eyes wide and mouth agape. Connor’s whole body likewise locked up at their sudden closeness, LED pulsing yellow as Hank’s breath flooded his nose with olfactory data.

_WARNING_

_THIRIUM LINE PRESSURE INCREASED BY 16.5%_

_^ 41% LEVEL OF STRESS_

Frozen like a fox in headlights, Connor’s analysis subroutines took over. He mapped out each weathered pore in Hank’s skin without meaning to, measured every silver hair of his beard, the one-point-seven millimetres between his central incisors a pleasing imperfection to record. He watched Hank’s depthless pupils dilate – his own stricken face reflected in them – observed as blotchy colour scorched its way across the human’s cheekbones.

A new emotion stirred in Connor as they stood paralysed, powerful and unfamiliar. Later he would swear a static charge had snapped between himself and Hank, painting his LED solid red. The air hung thick with tension, nerves fluttering in his abdominal cavity like moths around a light bulb.

Rooted to the spot, Connor squeezed the plate to compose himself. “I’ll …” he managed, voice small and faraway. They stood so close, he could feel the heat of Hank’s body bleeding through his clothes. “I’ll wash up.”

Hank didn’t react, his expression so stark with shock that it smoothed the shallowest of his wrinkles. Connor dismissed more error messages to hold his stare, afraid to break eye-contact. No, not afraid – _unwilling_. He didn’t want to look away, for a reason he couldn’t put into words.

Sumo huffed from under the table, and Connor realised with alarm that his respiratory simulation had stalled. He inhaled manually to start it up again, and the gasp-like sound shook Hank from his daze. The gruff man jerked a step back and hooked a hand around his own nape, scratching at the grey knots there.

“Sure, sure,” he muttered. “I’ll get changed. I, uh – thanks. For the food. It was perfect.”

Connor nodded numbly, and Hank hurried from the room without another word.

The android stayed where he was, still clutching the dirty plate to his chest. Processing. His LED cycled down slowly, from scarlet through gold to steady blue. So many errors, this evening. Perhaps he should enter stasis tonight, and run a defragmentation program.

Once again, he made a copy of the incident data and filed it away for later perusal. The fluttering in his belly had quieted some, though leftover tingles still sparked here and there. With a shake of his head, Connor turned and tasked himself to scrub the dishes. Sumo ambled over and headbutted his calf, then trudged away when it became clear he’d get no titbits.

While he washed up, Connor’s mind rerouted to his and Hank’s conversation over dinner.

The DPD was willing to take him back. This news should have thrilled him. Instead, phantom pressure wound its way around his spinal column. The thought of sitting exams didn’t phase him, like it might a human able to forget the answers. He’d be done with the tests in a matter of hours – minutes, if he could take them digitally.

His trepidation came from the idea of setting foot in the bullpen after so long away, and under changed circumstances.

Connor raised the spotless frying pan from the soapy water, and held it up to drip-dry a moment. On its wet surface, haloed by lamplight, his blank-faced reflection cocked its head.

At its temple, his LED burned yellow once more.

The sight of it gave Connor pause. It triggered a feeling of dysphoria he hadn’t experienced before, a sense of disconnect between himself and his mirror-image.

The android in the frying pan was him, but it also _wasn’t_. Not the true ‘Connor’. He’d evolved so far beyond the machine CyberLife had designed with this face, the two concepts were incomparable. He was a different person now. A _real_ person.

Except … he still looked the same as when he’d stepped off the production line. Identical. If Unit-60 were alive and dressed in jeans and a pullover, Hank would confuse them all over again. Every hand-crafted mole and freckle on Connor’s body was the legacy of a cruel AI and her greed, not even fingerprints to call his own. He hadn’t evolved or grown to look this way, as humans did; he was fabricated, by someone else, deliberately and specifically.

Could he really call his reflection his own, or was it just a projection of what his creators expected of him?

This train of thought weighed Connor down, circling his mind until the shuffle of sock-clad feet announced Hank’s return to the lounge.

Connor stood the pan upright in the draining rack, listened as Hank dropped himself into the couch with an _oomph_. He shuttered his eyes, visualised the scene behind him from its sounds alone. Sumo, trotting over to hoist himself up onto Hank’s legs. Hank, switching the TV on to a cookery channel and adjusting whatever comfy clothes he’d donned for the night. Connor emptied the sink and dried his hands on the towel tied to the oven door, and meandered across to the kitchen table.

“If I’m reinstated,” he said, lost in thought, “would I have to get my photograph taken?”

Hank made to sit up where he’d slumped in the cushions, concerned by his partner’s distant tone. With seventy-seven kilos of dog sprawled across his shins, he couldn’t move much – just enough to spy Connor hovering between their chairs. The android wasn’t looking at him, but staring as if bewitched into his half-finished mug of thirium.

He looked … wistful?

“I dunno,” said Hank. He stroked knuckles through the hairs of his throat. “Department might just use the photo in your CyberLife files. S’not like you’ve aged, or anything.”

Still, Connor didn’t look at him. “What if I decided to change my appearance?”

At that, a curious Hank nudged Sumo off the couch. The great beast whimpered and went to sulk in his usual spot under the radiator, head drooping and tail between his legs. Hank made a mental promise to fuss him later. For now, Connor had top priority.

Hank hiked up his sweatpants as he rose from the sofa, and made his muted way into the kitchen. Only when he moved within cold-catching distance did Connor raise his gaze, and it startled the lieutenant to find uncertainty there. Connor and Sumo had a lot in common right now, both reminiscent of kicked puppies. Connor always looked a little upset, Hank thought, except when he was smiling.

The current sadness deepening the android’s features was entirely new, and entirely heart-breaking. Hank wanted to hug him, but stopped himself short. It didn’t feel appropriate – at least, not until he knew what was wrong.

“You don’t like how you look?” he probed.

Connor’s lithe tongue flashed out, made a quick sweep from one corner of his mouth to the centre and then disappeared again. No moisture glistened in its wake, no saliva. He then gave an odd half-shrug, the sort he used to express he was having trouble communicating.

Hank took Connor’s shoulder in one careful hand, and waved the other at the couch. Calmly, he led his partner through to the lounge.

Once they were seated, the TV turned low in the background, Connor took the hem of his sweater between his fingers and began to twist. “Most deviants customise their appearance in some way, to differentiate themselves from other androids of the same model,” he said. He swallowed air, frowned at the cluttered coffee table. “I don’t need to do this. The only other RK800 – Unit-60 – was deactivated by _you_ , meaning I am unique. I cannot be mistaken for anyone else.”

Hank hunched, elbows on his knees at the fringe of Connor’s personal space. He still felt a little flustered from their moment in the kitchen, from being thrust face-to-face with the person who’d breathed life into his tired old heart. All the same, Hank wanted to stay close – to support Connor through his troubles as the android always did for him.

“But?”

Connor twisted his jumper harder, so tight that Hank thought it might fray. “I think … I would like to separate myself from CyberLife’s design,” he pushed out. Swallowed again. “I’m finding it difficult to express why. I’m not ashamed of being an android, so I don’t wish to remove my LED, but … I want to be _Connor_ , not RK800.”

Something like pride washed through Hank. Connor’s introspection reminded him of Cole’s first year of school, when the boy began to form his own opinions and sense of self from other children. “I think I get it,” he said, and gently pressed his knee to the solid seam of Connor’s. A little nudge, encouragement. “Humans feel like that too, sometimes. S’not exactly the same, but … tattoos, piercings, hair dye … it’s all ways to express themselves, stand out, or be happy in their own bodies. Nothing wrong with it.”

Connor considered this. “Changing my hair may be most appropriate,” he thought aloud. A piercing would be impractical, if not outright impossible, and any tattoo he programmed into his dermal layer would not be visible in his work uniform. Dissatisfaction reared its ugly head. “I have several preset options for hair colour, but … I rather like its current shade.”

Hank drummed his fingers on his own thigh. Light from the TV flickered over them both, fluid and colourful as the on-screen images moved and changed. “It does suit you like this,” he muttered, more to himself than his partner. He cleared his throat, leaned back to drape an arm over the side of the couch. “Well, how about cutting it? Can you … I mean, does android hair grow back?”

Brow furrowed, Connor shook his head. “While an android’s hair does recede when they deactivate their skin, once cut it will not grow back without a scalp transplant,” he said. He reached up as he spoke, and pinched the loose lock that hung free at his temple. Hank watched it tug and gleam like real hair, not fake-looking at all, a rich, dark brown that suited his partner to a T. Connor released the cowlick, and tried in vain to make it behave. “I’m interested in trying a shorter style, but again, I like its current length. This is frustrating, I’m sorry.”

The apology bounced off Hank. “Why not try both?” he said, and gesticulated at nothing. “Long on top, short at the sides. Like a fauxhawk kinda thing. Look up, uh … David Beckham, or Ricky Martin.”

As suggested, Connor ran a standard Internet search. He perused the results and related images at speed, racing through an array of well-groomed men to tune Hank’s vision to his own preferences. After exactly three seconds of contemplation, Connor twisted where he sat. He drew one leg beneath himself to sit sideways and face Hank, and offered one hand to his partner. Along the flat of his palm and fingers, he displayed his favourite picture from the search like a hologram.

“What about this?” he said.

Hank squinted, and leaned closer in a creak of cushions. The image Connor projected showed a young man posing for the camera, like one of those old Instagram stars. The model’s hair sat longer on top, slicked-back not unlike Connor’s current style, the sides shaved in a gradient fade. Hank hummed, eyebrows climbing his lined forehead. What a look. And on _Connor_? Fuck.

“Not bad,” he said. “That’s more of an undercut, but you get the idea. You sure you want it _that_ short, though? You gotta be positive, if it’ll be a bitch to replace.”

Connor dismissed the hologram. “I like it,” he said firmly, and shifted to kneel on both calves atop the couch. Hank swore he could _hear_ the gears whirling in his head. He could see it in his eyes, the single-minded spark of a hunter on a scent. “Do you own electric clippers, Lieutenant?”

“Uh … yeah?” said Hank, both surprised and amused by Connor’s sudden determination. He hadn’t witnessed it since the kid hopped down from his desk at the precinct, begging to review evidence before CyberLife recalled him for deactivation. Hank scratched his nose. “In the bathroom cabinet. They don’t work, though. Battery died years ago, and I lost the charger. That’s why we use scissors for–”

Connor was on his feet and striding away before Hank could finish his sentence, and in the bathroom by the time Hank stumbled upright. Hank scrambled after him, breathless with panic. From his blanket under the heater, Sumo lazily watched them both hurry off.

“Whoa, hold it!” cried Hank. He hadn’t realised Connor wanted to change his appearance _right now_. He heard the squeak of cabinet doors as he rounded the corner into the hall, and stalled in the bathroom doorway to find Connor holding a familiar box. Hank stormed into the room. “Fuckin’ hell, _slow down_. Don’t you think you oughtta spare this a bit more thought?”

Connor perched himself on the edge of the tub, and unlatched the cardboard tab with dexterous fingers. “I have,” he said. He tipped the box upside-down, and a chunky pair of cordless hair clippers slid into his hand. Connor’s lips twitched into a small smile, which he flashed at Hank. “I think much faster than you do, Lieutenant. I have spent the human equivalent of several hours weighing this decision.”

Lips pursed, Hank folded his arms across his gut. He had to admit, the thought of Connor with an undercut wasn’t a terrible one. With a jerk of his chin, he gestured at the clippers. “You heard me when I said I lost the charger, right?”

Connor’s head tilted in that inquisitive way of his, and he dropped his gaze to the trimmers. The skin of his hand dissolved as Hank watched, melting away from smooth white-grey plasteel. The cordless device then came alive in Connor’s bare palm, buzzing like a swarm of angry bees.

Pulse loud and dull in his ears, Hank pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fuckin’-A,” he said. He’d had too long a day for this shit. “Well. Holler if you need help.”

“I won’t,” said Connor, “but thank you.”

With that, Hank left the android alone to do whatever the piss he wanted.

Feeling rather like a rebel teen, Connor rose from the edge of the tub and approached the mirror gingerly. He met the gleaming eyes of his reflection, watched its LED dance between yellow and blue. Anxious excitement pulsed through him, like a stray current, stretched his facial features into a wide, lopsided grin.

_“Why’d they make you look so goofy, and give you that weird voice?”_

Connor composed himself. He leaned over the sink and raked his nails through his thick brown locks, parted them into sections as the clippers hummed in his sure grip.

When he brought the machine to the side of his head, the noise changed. It grew harsher, deeper in pitch as vibrating metal met synthetic hair. Severed strands fell away to rest in the basin, scattered like scratches in the off-white porcelain. He ran the blade of the clippers up along the contour of his skull, shaving a shallow path through the curls. He felt the shift of it, the steady vibrations and the tug of artificial follicles in his scalp.

Brief panic gripped him once the first cut was made, thorns in his chest. The missing stripe looked ridiculous on its own. What if he didn’t like the finished product? He ran the faucet to wash away the fallen hairs. No turning back now. He shook off his indecision, reminded himself that self-expression was _okay_.

He exhaled, and once more met the stare of his reflection.

“My name is Connor.”

With all the online tutorials in the world to guide him, _RK800_ ceased to be.

 

~

 

“What do you think?”

Hank studied his partner over the top of his beer, one heel propped on the coffee table while Sumo snored in his lap. Connor stood beside the TV, hands linked behind himself, all proud and smiley as he awaited Hank’s judgement.

The undercut suited him, Hank thought. Very much so. Not too different from his default style, but enough to know there’d been a change, the sides shaved tight and neat and the top smoothed back as before. Still, there was something … not quite right about it, Hank thought. Something _missing_. The stray lock remained, disobedient at Connor’s temple, never to be tamed.

Hm. Maybe it was trying to tell them something.

Hank set his beer aside and sat up, and gestured for Connor to come closer. The android approached at once, lowered himself onto the arm of the couch so as not to disturb Sumo. He hunched over when Hank reached up, to make the stretch easier on him. Perhaps there was a strand out of place, and Hank meant to fix it.

For a split-second, Connor felt thick fingers on his scalp. Then, the dark room shook violently – back-and-forth in rough motions as Hank rubbed his head with vigour. Connor swayed when the earthquake ceased, dizzy and disoriented.

“There,” said Hank, and he sank back into the cushions. “Perfect.”

Gyroscope still reeling, Connor raised a tentative hand to explore what his partner had done.

The longer thatch of hair at Connor’s crown flopped free, ruffled into a cascade of loose curls that spilled down his left temple. No longer slicked-back, the coils and twists shifted and teased at his brow when he moved his head. Connor enjoyed the sensation, likened it to the caress of wind on the night of the vigil. Having his hair loose felt oddly freeing, a little more casual and laid-back.

He liked it.

LED glowing as blue as Hank’s proud eyes, Connor echoed his partner’s approval. “Perfect.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor's undercut is a shameless nod to Bryan Dechart, our favourite android's actor in _Detroit: Become Human_. Next chapter, Christmas!
> 
> Come holler at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/toastycyborg) or [Tumblr](https://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)!


	6. Shades of Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor spends his first Christmas with the people who matter most to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor characters present in this chapter: Sumo, Markus, North, Simon, Josh, Carl Manfred, Leo Manfred.
> 
> Beta’d by **ametrineluckyfashion** and **bloodsbane**. Thanks again, you lovely people!

 

DATE

 **DEC 25TH** , 2038

TIME

PM **14:51** :27

 

 

Markus invited Connor and Hank to Christmas dinner at the Manfred home.

Much like Thanksgiving, Hank hadn’t celebrated Christmas in three years. Ever since his son passed away and his wife slapped him with divorce papers, he’d not cared enough about anyone to share gifts and spread cheer. More than that … he found it hard to stomach the festivities. Christmas had been Cole’s favourite time of year, and everything about the holiday made Hank’s soul twist with melancholy.

Over the last few weeks, though … he’d thought about opening up to the idea again. Connor looked like a man but at heart he was young, all wide-eyed wonder and curiosity. Connor would _adore_ Christmas. Hank imagined dressing a tree with him, pictured building a gingerbread house together and chaste kisses under the mistletoe.

That last one was a long-shot, an old romantic’s fantasy. Hank didn’t know how Connor felt about him, or if he even thought about _those things_ at all … but Hank would be lying if he said he wasn’t hopeful.

Alas – the memories hurt too much. The echoes of Cole leaving cookies for Santa and ripping into presents were too much to bear, and so the Anderson household went undecorated. Hank resigned himself to spending the twenty-fifth locked in his bedroom, with his photo albums and a bottle of Black Lamb.

The invite from Markus changed those plans.

Hank had only met the deviant leader once, at last month’s candlelight vigil. They hadn’t swapped names, barely spoke at all in their brief interaction. Hank didn’t expect the man to reach out to him. Connor, on the other hand, had stayed with Markus during their talks with the president. They’d become friends, close enough that Connor had visited his home twice since they returned from Washington.

If Markus’s invite were addressed to Connor alone, Hank would’ve been fine with it. He didn’t want Connor to stay home and keep his Scrooge of a partner company, when he could be out enjoying the world. But Markus’s offer of dinner extended to _Hank_ , as well – Sumo, too – and Hank realised his own world had grown a little bit larger.

A party with the Manfreds was a big step. A _huge_ step, for Hank. The lieutenant knew he’d improved over these last few weeks, but he still wouldn’t call himself ‘good company’. He didn’t like to socialise and he hated big gatherings of strangers. Connor soothed his fears at once, assured him it would be a small and quiet event. Ten people at most, including themselves and Sumo. Connor promised that Hank could leave whenever he wished, for whatever reason – said he didn’t have to attend at all, if he didn’t want to.

The android had looked so eager as he awaited an answer, Hank couldn’t find it in himself to say no.

And so, they went.

“8941 Lafayette Avenue … this is it.”

The Manfred mansion was the swankiest joint Hank had ever seen, aside from Kamski’s place. Even in his least obnoxious shirt and nicest suit pants, he felt underdressed as he pulled his car onto the curb. He killed the engine, ran a clammy hand over his beard, and peered up the sloped drive at the gorgeous red brickwork and arched doorway. Grit and salt peppered the icy ground, the neat hedgerows and steep roof dusted white. Another car and a large brown pickup truck sat parked in the driveway, both with Detroit registrations.

Connor went rigid in the passenger seat, LED blinking rhythmic yellow. “Markus and the others are assembled in the lounge,” he said. The ring at his temple cycled to blue and he blinked alert, wireless communication ended. He unbuckled his seatbelt and twisted to where Sumo sprawled like a king in the backseat, voice honey-warm when he spoke again. “Are you excited to meet everyone?”

Sumo’s tongue lolled out, panting with a bow tied to his collar.

On any other day, Hank would’ve chuckled at the way Connor talked to the Saint Bernard. The android spoke like he expected Sumo to answer, as if he thought the dog could understand and respond. Hank found it sweet. This afternoon, though, Hank felt too anxious from the thought of socialising to comment on it.

Connor reached back through the gap in the front seats to scratch Sumo’s ear, then plucked a stray dog hair from his sleeve when he withdrew. He glanced himself up and down. “I hope I’m presentable,” he muttered. “I’ve never been to an event like this before.”

Hank didn’t trust himself to reply, his heart doing its best Neil Peart drum solo in his ribcage. Connor wore his corduroy pants and indigo turtleneck beneath a winter coat, his curly new undercut swept into ordered disarray. The dark colours made his pale skin glow, the high collar emphasising the line of his jaw. He looked _great_ , all slim and proper and handsome. The urge to touch him momentarily overtook Hank’s nerves, causing his insides to flutter in a different way. Deviant hunter killing machine, Kamski’s ass.

At Hank’s silence, Connor’s quizzical stare flicked up. Hank floundered to unbuckle his seatbelt, getting out of the car before he could say or do something stupid.

Fuck CyberLife, for making his partner so … _everything_.

Concerned by the speed of Hank’s pulse, Connor collected the gift bottle of scotch from his footwell and followed him outside. “Hank,” he called over the roof of the car. He didn’t shut his door. “You can drop me off here and go home, if you like. I’ll catch a cab later. It’s no trouble.”

Face burning in the winter chill, Hank fumbled Sumo’s leash as the dog clambered down from the back seat. “Nah, m’fine,” he said. “It’s just … been a while, y’know? I’m not a _party_ kinda guy – but if it’s important to you that I’m here, I’m here.”

A small smile graced Connor’s features, softening his face in the gentlest of ways. “I wouldn’t have accepted Markus’s invite without you, Lieutenant,” he said, and closed his door with a _thud_. “I suspect I’m not much of a party-person, either.”

Some of Hank’s unease thawed at that. Ah … so Connor was nervous, too? Maybe together, it wouldn’t be so bad.

Hank locked the car and followed Connor up the Manfreds’ driveway, Sumo trotting behind. The front door swung inward automatically as they neared, opening to a welcome wall of warmth, and a pleasant female voice chimed to announce their arrival.

_‘Security deactivated. Welcome back, Connor.’_

At once, Hank knew they’d entered the house of an artist. Sculptures and paintings washed colour through the entrance hall, an ornate mirror to the left beside a golden cage of chirruping android birds. Even the staircase had been painted like a mural, a glittering chandelier above and various masks like busts on the walls. Piano music drifted from somewhere nearby, muted chatter and laughter in another room. Appetising scents flavoured the air, roast potatoes and meats and seasonal vegetables.

Hank whistled. He and his beaming partner hung their coats on the stand near the entrance, and Connor took point across a zebra-skin rug to another automatic door.

The main room had a rustic vibe, Hank thought, rich hardwoods in shades of brown and orange and bronze. Christmas lights and ornaments twinkled in every corner, streamers crisscrossing the balcony of the second floor, tinsel like feather boas slung about the neck of a taxidermy giraffe. At the heart of the lounge, atop patterned carpets, two red couches mirrored each other. A round chess table perched behind, in the nook of a vast bay window.

Atop the sofa facing the entrance, tumblers of thirium in-hand, Josh and North reclined to chat. Josh brightened when he spotted Connor and Hank, clad in a green sweater with Christmas puddings on the front. North wore a complicated-looking dress that ended at her knees but trailed longer at the back, hair pinned over her shoulder in a complex braid.

Unlike Josh, North didn’t react to the newcomers. Instead she stared off to one side, expression fond. Hank followed her gaze to spot Markus across the room, perched on the stool of an elegant grand piano. He played a soft melody with serene focus, dressed in black and grey with accents of gold. Beside him, thin hands folded in his lap, an old man Hank assumed to be Carl Manfred sat in a wheelchair. A knit blanket lay draped over the elder’s legs, a nasal cannula looped around his ears and relaxed face.

Josh set down his drink and stood. “Connor!” he called. The dark-skinned android approached swiftly, and swerved around a display case of curios to wrap Connor in a hug. Hank saw Connor stiffen at the contact, then relax into it. Josh gave him a squeeze, then took a respectful step back. “Good to see you again. The hair suits you.”

While Josh shook Hank’s hand, and Connor told his partner who everyone was, Hank noticed another person in the room. Near the giraffe, a dark-haired man of around thirty loitered in the shade of a bookcase. Hank didn’t know him, but recognised the pallid skin and bruised eye sockets as signs of a recovering drug addict. The stranger’s jeans and beanie made Hank feel a little less underdressed. In an undertone, Connor told him this person was Leo – Carl’s son.

Markus rose from his stool, his music replaced by Christmas tunes from a radio Hank couldn’t see. Markus kissed the crown of Carl’s head, then made his way toward the new arrivals. Josh stooped in the meantime, cupping Sumo’s jowls to nuzzle him. Sumo’s tail pounded the floor at such attention, tongue lathing slobber over Josh’s cheeks and nose. Clearing an expression of mild disgust at the display, North raised her glass from the couch. Connor nodded ‘hello’ in reply.

Markus grasped Hank’s right hand in both of his own. “Thanks for coming, you two,” he said. Connor presented the gift of scotch and Markus laughed, and gestured for them to make themselves comfortable. “Dinner’s almost ready. Simon started plating as soon as you got here.”

Hank glanced to the dining table and saw eight placemats laid out, one before every seat plus the space for Carl’s wheelchair. He couldn’t help but point out the obvious. “I thought you guys didn’t eat.”

Markus hummed. “No,” he said, “but you, Carl, and Leo do. It would be rude of us not to socialise. Please, Lieutenant – sit anywhere you like.”

To himself, Hank wondered if politeness was an RK-model thing. He knelt to unclip Sumo’s leash and the dog lurched to seek out the kitchen, whose door slid open when it sensed movement. North shot up to catch Sumo by the collar, and steered him away before he could contaminate the food area. Connor left Hank’s side with a grin and made a beeline to greet Carl, while Josh carried his and North’s drinks to the table and Markus went to help Simon.

Leo stayed put. He hadn’t so much as blinked, Hank noticed, after Markus mentioned his title. Hank’s cop senses tingled, but he pushed it aside for now.

The lieutenant picked a random seat at the table, the corner chair with its back to the TV and creepy giraffe. He felt out-of-place, surrounded by people whom he didn’t know but all knew each other. It was uncomfortably similar to the first Thanksgiving meal with his ex-wife’s family, all awkward and scared of fucking up first impressions.

He tried not to think about the implications of that – this being the closest thing to _Connor’s_ family. Instead, he twisted to watch his cheerful partner wheel Carl over. He could do this, for Connor. He could laugh and mingle as if he didn’t dread Christmas, as if sitting down for dinner with a bunch of androids _who didn’t eat_ was a normal fucking thing people did.

At last, Carl’s adult son left his little pigeon-hole. Sneakers shuffling on the floorboards, he pulled up the seat beside the empty spot for the wheelchair – the farthest seat away from Hank. As Connor steered Carl into his usual space, something clicked in Hank’s mind. He sat back and drummed his fingers on his kneecap.

This was gonna be uncomfortable enough already, he thought. Might as well clear the air.

“I’m off-duty, son,” he told Carl’s scruffy kid. Leo gave a start, lips thin as Connor paused in helping Carl adjust his blanket. Hank raised a shoulder, indifferent. “Ain’t here to arrest or interrogate anybody, and it’s been years since I worked narcotics. I’m just a hungry old man today, got it?”

Leo straightened his placemat, head down. “Yeah yeah, man, sure,” he said. He let out a nervous breath of a laugh, eyes darting up and away again. “Old habits, y’know?”

Hank hummed. He knew. Even recovered addicts got twitchy around cops, but Hank wasn’t about to press him for info on his former dealers. None of his business.

Nestled in his wheelchair, Carl chuckled. “My boy’s clean, Anderson … almost a month now,” he said. Pride warmed his deep, textured voice. “Said it’s his gift to me, not touching that stuff again. Who’d’ve thought it? I’d be happy with just this nice, cosy dinner with my sons and their friends.”

Connor beamed. He lowered himself into the chair on Hank’s right, straight across from Carl. “Thank you for including us, Mr. Manfred,” he said. “It … it means a lot.”

The old artist gave him a slow nod, appreciative and full of meaning. “Please, call me Carl.”

North and Josh approached the dining table, having all but petted Sumo into a coma on the bench under the bay window. The two settled themselves into chairs: North on the short edge to Hank’s left, and Josh beside Connor. North smirked at Hank when she sat down, an almost appraising look cast with a confidence he felt inclined to respect.

“Connor’s told us a lot about you,” she said, and swirled her glass of thirium like a connoisseur. “You’re … not what I expected. He made you sound so attractive.”

Hank saw his partner freeze in his peripheral vision. Though flattered by how Connor spoke of him when he wasn’t around, Hank answered North’s back-handed compliment with a snort. “Sorry to disappoint, honey,” he said, “but I wasn’t designed by a team of hipsters with PhDs in how to make people look sexy. Speakin’ of, I saw your photo on the cover of _Century_ – or was that another Traci?”

North cocked a fine eyebrow. The audible gulp from Josh, on Connor’s right, told Hank he’d touched a nerve. Connor opened his mouth to defuse the situation – but North tipped her glass at Hank as if to say _touché_ , and took a sip.

“Not bad, Anderson,” she said. “I respect someone who can fight fire with fire.”

Carl chortled. “Don’t let Markus hear you say that.”

So quiet that Hank almost missed it, Connor exhaled in relief.

As if on cue, Markus emerged from the kitchen. He swept in and laid out food for the humans, three loaded plates of tender meat and bread and steaming greens. Simon followed, laden with a tray of sauces and cutlery. Hank tucked a napkin into his collar, ravenous all of a sudden. Markus poured the humans their choice of wine, then claimed the chair between North and Carl. Simon settled himself across from North, between Josh and Leo. The androids passed around a box of thirium pouches, and Christmas dinner began.

Small-talk, political discussions, and wry banter foiled any awkward silence over the meal. With a full table, there were always at least two conversations going on at once. Hank mostly listened at first, too busy demolishing his food to contribute. _Fuck_ , he’d thought Connor’s burger was good? That’s android cooking for you, he mused: perfect every time. Sumo trotted over at some point to curl up between him and Connor, and Hank slipped the pooch safe nibbles every now and then. Leo came out of his shell to trade good-natured insults with Markus, and Carl laughed so hard at a comment of Simon’s that they had to stop for him to catch his breath.

Connor recorded every second to memory.

The detective found he shared a similar sense of humour to Josh, and spent some time with him competing over who could invent the most intelligent joke. Connor absorbed Carl’s anecdotes and life advice, and felt warmth bloom in his core when Markus and North linked hands under the table. When asked by Simon, he shared the news of his flawless police exam results. Congratulations circled the group, and Connor sampled a drop of red wine Hank had spilled on a napkin. The content of the alcohol fascinated him, as chemical analyses always did, but paled in comparison to the joy of dialogue.

In his short life, he’d never had so much fun.

“–You _punched_ him?” said Leo, slack-jawed where he sat.

“Hell yeah, I punched him,” said Hank, waving his fork through the air. “Right in his smarmy fuckin’ face. What else was I s’posed to do? I had to slow him down, so Con could get into the evidence room.”

Simon looked horrified. “But Perkins is an FBI agent,” he pointed out. “Weren’t there … repercussions?”

Connor followed the lieutenant’s fork with his eyes, watched him stab his final Brussels sprout and pop it into his mouth. “Might be, someday,” Hank said around the morsel. He chewed in thought, swallowed. “Captain couldn’t afford to suspend me at the time. We were down too many cops already, when the android units left.”

“Perkins is a prick,” spat North. “His people killed so many of us. I wish you’d done more than hit him.”

Markus sighed. “North….”

The conversation turned to a discussion of acceptable violence, but Connor zoned out. Despite the array of interesting people and opinions that surrounded him, his attention kept finding its way back to Hank.

As the afternoon wore on, Connor watched the lieutenant loosen up. Hank’s micro-expressions and body language spoke of nothing but enjoyment, his hearty guffaws a pleasant bass in Connor’s ears. Connor saved the audio bytes in a priority folder. It made him buzz with delight, seeing his partner laugh and have a good time. By the second glass of red, Hank got along shockingly well with North – and within an hour, he was talking to Carl like the two were old friends.

Most people liked Hank. Connor realised this now. He was grumpy and a little abrasive – but he wasn’t _mean_ , like Detective Reed. Hank had friends in most of his co-workers and Jimmy and Gary, and even Pedro the bookie. Connor had seen a more unpleasant side of Hank at first, because the lieutenant held anti-android views and Connor was a soulless machine.

Once they got to know each other, and Connor _evolved_ , Hank changed his stance – and Connor was allowed to see the real Hank, the one whose barbed exterior enveloped a heart of gold.

Connor didn’t want to imagine a life without him.

Two hours, thirty-one minutes, and eleven seconds after the group sat down to eat, Simon stood from his chair. “Can I tempt anyone with dessert?”

Carl steepled his fingers. “Mm, twist my arm,” he said. Leo sniggered, and Hank raised a thumbs-up that Sumo followed hungrily.

As Simon began to collect the empty plates, Connor rose to assist him. He’d long finished his glass of 310, and itched to make himself useful. The pings of his productivity matrix could not be ignored forever.

In the kitchen, he helped spoon three servings of warm Christmas pudding into bowls. While the blond android washed up, Simon gave him the task of dousing the desserts in brandy sauce. Connor poured a little extra into Hank’s bowl without meaning to, then carried the treats out to the dining table. He served Carl first and travelled clockwise around the table; Leo second, Hank last.

Hank’s fingers covered his when Connor handed him his bowl, skin contact like a jolt of lightning through the android’s system.

An error blipped across Connor’s HUD, another thirium pump irregularity that made his LED flare yellow. He’d grown used to them, by this point: his body often misbehaved around Hank, with increasing frequency. What he _wasn’t_ used to was the way Hank stared at him now – the odd, searching look as they held the pudding between themselves with fingers overlapped. Pop-ups flooded Connor’s vision, scan points centred on Hank’s age spots and laugh lines and the charismatic gap in his teeth. They held no real analyses but _demanded_ Connor’s attention, as if trying to pinpoint some key piece of evidence he’d missed.

After a long moment, half-blinded by data boxes, Connor remembered himself. He pulled away with a start, more warnings crowding his sight faster than he could clear them. Still with that curious look, Hank set his bowl down on his placemat. The lieutenant muttered a gruff _thank-you_ and turned away in his chair, and hunched over his dessert.

Connor couldn’t move. A dialogue prompt to apologise hung before his eyes, but didn’t know for what.

His hand tingled where Hank’s had left traces of skin cells and oils, throbbed with a dull sense of pleasure he wanted to chase. Rooted to the spot, Connor closed his open mouth in a click of teeth. His stress level climbed the longer he stood there, panicking without an objective to follow. It felt like something was _stuck_ inside him, dust caught in a gear and refusing to let it turn.

Static poked at his temples, a precursor to Markus’s calm voice. _[Everything okay?]_

Connor snapped his head aside. To his relief, no-one else seemed aware of his distress. Laughter rang loud through the room, over an exasperated groan as Leo wiped brandy sauce from his jacket. Markus alone was looking at Connor, his concern thinly veiled behind a neutral mask.

Without his consent, Connor’s alarm and anxiety bled across their private connection. Markus’s façade cracked, the concern sharpening. Connor wished the floorboards would part and swallow him whole. His respiratory process had shut itself off, core temperature rising from stress and the lack of cooling air.

Markus stood, nonchalant and inconspicuous, and laid a hand on the shoulder of his elderly father-figure. “Carl,” he said, “may I show Connor the piece you’ve been working on?”

A few gazes around the table flicked to Connor, who angled himself to hide his scarlet LED. Carl gave his gravelly consent, and the deviant leader guided his stricken friend across to a door by the piano.

Paint splattered the concrete floor of Carl’s studio, set up inside a sun-room at the back of the mansion. Lights flickered on as the androids entered, dust motes and the glow of sunset casting the illusion that the space had been set in amber. Tables with jars of brushes cluttered the area, rolls of paper and art supplies Connor didn’t recognise. Half-finished sculptures crowded one corner, sketches tacked to the bare brick wall that was the rear of the house. The other three walls were solid glass, granting a clear view of the modest garden and its frozen pond.

On autopilot, Connor fished the coin from his pocket as Markus strode through the maze of tables. Rather than show him a painting, as Connor expected, Markus opened a glass door at the back of the studio and gestured for him to head through it. Connor obeyed, stepping outside to a crunch of frost-stiffened grass underfoot.

The cooler temperature helped him breathe again, and Connor retreated into the comfort of calibrations. He flipped and rolled the quarter between his fingers, attuned to distant traffic noise and the yowls of a cat in the next street.

Markus sidled past him, approached the pond to sit himself on its stone wall. He clasped his hands in his lap and looked up at Connor, but didn’t speak for five solid seconds.

“Are you all right?”

Connor hesitated, vocal modulator tight as the coin travelled his knuckles. The successful calibration didn’t flush him with the usual sense of fulfilment, so he kept going. _[I don’t know.]_

Markus smiled. _[That’s okay,]_ he said, respecting Connor’s current preference for digital speech. He shuffled where he sat, as if to get comfortable. _[We weren’t made to feel. Emotions are powerful. It’s normal to get caught up or lost in them, sometimes. Humans do, too.]_

Connor shook his head. _[‘Sometimes’ …]_ he echoed darkly. The winter breeze ruffled his hair, bitter enough to make a human shiver. He twisted away with brow furrowed, no longer even looking at his dextrous hands. _[I don’t know, Markus. I was designed to operate under pressure, to keep my cool in everything from shootouts to hostage situations. But lately, I’ve felt … overwhelmed, all the time. Am I defective?]_

Markus leaned forward at that, elbows on his knees. Guilt lanced through Connor at the sympathy on his face. _[You’re not defective, Connor,]_ he assured. _[You’re still learning. We all are. Talk to me – maybe I can help you.]_

Connor tossed the coin, from his left palm to the right with excessive force. The tiny disc _slapped_ against his skin and he balled his fingers around it, squeezed the quarter as if to crush it to dust. He could do so, with ease. Instead he isolated its scent amid the smog of winter, identified the ratio of copper-to-nickel in its alloy. Diagnostics ticking in the back of his mind, he licked his lips.

“I …” he began aloud. A bus passed by beyond the hedges, a gentle _whoosh_ of tyres and ice that gave him time to reassess. “I’ve been experiencing … errors, recently. In my behaviour, and physical reactions. My body will respond to stimuli in ways I can’t predict, certain processes locking up or cutting out altogether. I can’t pinpoint a source in my software _or_ hardware.”

Markus nodded along while he listened. In the pause, he sat up. “Any critical errors?”

Connor hung his head. He approached Markus, and sat himself beside him on the pond’s low wall. The cold of the stone seeped through his trousers, neither pleasant nor unpleasant. “No, nothing life-threatening,” he said. “But … it always happens around Hank. I don’t want to worry him.”

Fabric rustled as Markus slackened his posture. “It happens _around_ Lieutenant Anderson,” he said, tone light, “or _because_ of him?”

Connor’s LED, still red, blinked rapidly as he digested the question. It wasn’t an outlandish connection to make. The stimuli he mentioned _did_ always come from Hank, one way or another – but Connor had assumed this to be a coincidence. He didn’t spend much time with anyone else, after all. No-one else interacted with him on a regular basis, so of course Hank would be around to witness his malfunctions.

When Connor explained as much, Markus’s silence suggested he knew something Connor didn’t. Connor scowled through the glass wall of the studio, calculating how long remained until the last beams of sunlight sank below the horizon. Dusk streaked the cloudy sky in purples and rich violets, the frosty lawn bathed crimson.

“How would you describe your relationship with the lieutenant?” said Markus.

Connor focused on his coin again. What a strange thing to ask. “He is my partner,” he said. It felt odd to state the obvious, clarifying facts Markus already knew. “We live together, and soon, we’ll work together again, too. We take care of each other and look after Sumo. He buys me anything I need – and sometimes things I _don’t_ need … and I manage the house when he’s too busy to.”

Markus made a small sound, like an amused breath pushed through his nose. He hunched a little to meet Connor’s eyes, his mismatched two creased and fond. “Sure, that’s what you _do_ ,” he said. “But … I meant, how do you _feel_ about him?”

Connor frowned. “I like him, of course,” he said. “Hank cares about me a great deal. He … he is kind, and supportive. I’m glad to have met him.”

Silence, broken by distant car horns. Then–

“Why?” Markus prompted.

Connor sighed, frustration building. He caught and held his coin as he wrestled with an answer, unable to translate his feelings into a coherent sentence. How could he, when he couldn’t even categorise them himself? After twelve-point-eight seconds of internal struggle, Connor held out his empty hand and let the skin recede. _Showing_ was easier than _telling_.

Markus raised an eyebrow, then reached out to interface without a word.

Everything he felt toward Hank, Connor let bleed from his chassis into Markus’s. The gratitude, the admiration, the _resolve_ to protect him and keep him safe. The raw, unbearable agony at the thought of losing him. The desperation to take his pain away, to soothe his dark thoughts so he never had to cry again. Markus may have been the one to wake Connor up, but _Hank_ had torn down the firewalls meant to keep him in line. Hank taught him how to be alive, how to think and feel and _be_. A little of Hank lived in every aspect of Connor’s personality, from his kindness to his sarcasm, ingrained and cherished.

The magnitude of his own emotions caught Connor by surprise. He’d never stopped to analyse himself like this – and like a fishing boat on a stormy sea, he found himself pulled under. He couldn’t fathom how he’d held it all in until now, how he hadn’t even noticed his attachment growing. He cared about Hank with every fibre of his being, so much that it hurt. A recording of Hank’s laughter played itself in the depths and a bright, unknown sensation swept through Connor – blazed like a virus through every line of his code.

 _Have you experienced anything unusual recently?_ Amanda had once asked him. _Do you feel anything for these deviants … or for Lieutenant Anderson?_

Amanda had known. She’d pressed her rhetorical questions like a knife to his throat, needling for a reaction to test her hypothesis. Compromised – he was compromised. A flaw in his program, a bug that’d slipped through CyberLife’s quality control. It had to be. No-one should feel with such intensity, Connor thought, human _or_ android. How could it be anything but a malfunction, when a mere chuckle or pat on the head strained his systems like this?

At the fringe of his gridlocked thoughts, he registered Markus’s soothing voice. _[You’re okay, Connor,]_ he said. _[I … I have something that might help you understand. May I show you?]_

The former deviant hunter had a sudden, vivid realisation that he was interfacing with _Markus_ – the revolution leader he’d once been tasked to kill. It seemed like so long ago, an echo of a nightmare, a past life. Through their connection, Connor glimpsed Markus’s fraternal concern. It made sense that Markus saw him as a younger brother, given how he preceded Connor in the prototype RK line.

Too moved to speak, Connor sent a mental ping of consent. Markus squeezed his hand in reply. His firm grip grounded them both, and Connor stilled as a foreign memory was uploaded to his mind palace.

The scene crackled at the edges, grainy with noise and data compression. From Markus’s perspective, he saw the snow-blanketed rooftop of an abandoned bar. Geographic data placed the location as Woodward Avenue, Detroit, November ninth. The day deviants had marched for their freedom. Through his eyes, Connor watched Markus walk along a wooden beam that cropped out from the side of the building. Four storeys of empty air and fog stretched between him and solid ground, but Markus felt no fear.

North appeared, quiet and subdued behind him on the roof. They gravitated together and spoke their hearts, their innermost secrets, tears spilling from North’s eyes as she voiced the horrors of her past. Connor experienced the feelings Markus had in that moment, the pain and empathy and the urge to comfort, and the _rush_ as Markus realised that he loved her.

Connor _ached_ with catharsis at how familiar it felt. The emotions resonated, because he felt the same way about Hank.

When Markus and North pressed their glowing palms together in the memory, Connor _yearned_. He wanted that, with Hank. That connection, that … intimacy. It was the missing puzzle piece, the wish he hadn’t understood. His preconstruction software flared to life, filled his mind with all kinds of scenarios between himself and Hank. Touching him, kissing him, holding him close, mapping the stretch marks on his skin and rhythm of his heartbeat. Connor’s breathing cut out again at the images – and suddenly all his recent errors made sense.

Markus loved North, and Connor loved Hank.

The shock of realisation made Connor rip his hand out of Markus’s. His auditory processors fizzled and popped, the severed connection replaced by traffic sounds and muffled voices from inside the house. His quarter lay face-down in the grass, dropped for the first time since his activation. Markus’s smile didn’t register, face-recognition program slow to boot. Fresh errors ticked in Connor’s chest, thirium pump clenched tight and racing.

He was in love.

 

~

 

When Markus and Connor left, Hank knew something was up.

He’d thought it weird for them to go off alone without warning – but then the other androids at the table also dispersed, while the humans tackled dessert. Josh played himself at chess in the alcove of the bay window, Simon sat at the piano and tapped a few keys, and North browsed the Manfreds’ vast array of bookshelves. Hank finished his pudding and twiddled his thumbs while Carl and Leo chatted, glancing every now and then to the studio door.

Perhaps ten minutes later, his partner and Markus returned. Connor’s gaze stayed locked on his shiny shoes, elusive. Hank had little time to wonder what’d upset him, before Markus invited everyone to gather for presents.

The group moved to the central couches, pulling up extra chairs to sit in a circle. A mound of wrapped gifts was brought in and arranged on the coffee table between them – and Hank blinked when he noticed some of the tags bore _his_ name. He hadn’t expected such generosity from near-strangers.

Connor sat himself precariously on the arm of the sofa, right next to Hank, one leg folded to his chest and both arms hugged around it. Though he suspected the android had perfect balance, Hank looped an arm around Connor’s back to keep him from falling off his perch. The gesture was automatic, second nature. Connor leaned against him, resting his chin atop his raised knee with a shy smile down at Hank.

Eye-contact eased the lieutenant somewhat, but not altogether.

The gift exchange lasted almost an hour. Hank came out of it with a Detroit Gears sweater and a box of chocolate liqueurs, and a beautiful oil painting of Sumo from Carl. Hank let the dog sniff his own portrait, chortling at his bemused grin. The androids’ presents to one another held clothes, for the most part, the highlight being a hand-knitted beanie from Simon to Connor. Connor showed the hat to Sumo and told him never to chew on it, earning a round of laughs from the group.

Evening fell, and people drifted off to do their own thing. Carl challenged Leo to chess while Josh offered tips to both players, Simon nestled on a couch and switched on the TV, and Markus and North traded kisses at the piano while he tried to teach her a simple melody. Hank stood and stretched, full of food and bladder heavy.

“Got a restroom I can use?” he said.

Connor all but teleported to his side. “Upstairs, Lieutenant,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

Hank flapped a hand. “I’m a homicide detective, Con. I’m sure I can find–”

Before he could finish, Connor seized the cuff of Hank’s arm and began to tug him toward the entrance hall. Hank had no choice but to follow, lest he risk losing the limb to his partner’s iron grip. Connor led him up the colourful stairs and onto the open balcony, and around a corner lined with more artworks. Were he not bamboozled by Connor’s sudden pushiness, Hank would’ve questioned why a disabled man’s home lacked a downstairs toilet.

In the mouth of a bedroom, Connor released Hank. He stood straight and businesslike with both hands linked at his back, expression deadpan. “Inside, on the left,” he said.

Hank raised an eyebrow at him. “Jesus,” he chortled, and started for the restroom. “Next time I drink, I’m not lettin’ you sample it. That lick of red went straight to your head.”

Though he locked the door behind himself, Connor’s voice penetrated the wood without problem. “Androids cannot get drunk, Hank,” he called. “You, however, most definitely can. It would be best if I drive us home tonight; your blood-alcohol content–”

“All _right_ , don’t blow a gasket….”

After relieving himself and washing his hands, Hank emerged expecting Connor to be right where he’d left him. To his surprise, the android was gone.

Hank found him instead at the top of the stairs, elbows on the banister, overlooking the entrance hall. He didn’t seem aware of Hank’s presence. The hunched posture accentuated the line of Connor’s back, one long leg bent and lips parted in thought. Hairs stiffened on the lieutenant’s nape, rosy heat in his ears. Huh, maybe it _was_ best if Hank didn’t drive tonight. The wine must’ve hit him different than whiskey or beer.

Hank approached his partner with hands buried in his pockets. “You good?”

Connor flinched, and straightened from the balcony so fast that Hank winced with phantom whiplash. “O-of course,” he said. He seemed flustered, LED wheeling yellow. “Would you like to rejoin the party, or should we head out?”

Hank looked him up and down. Something clearly still bothered Connor, distressing enough that he hadn’t heard the lieutenant’s footsteps. Hank had no opinion on further celebrations either way, but ... “Do _you_ wanna head out?”

The crash of a glass dropped on hardwood rose from the floor below, followed by boisterous laughter and a playful Saint Bernard bark. Connor peered down over the balcony railing, his sigh melancholic as he squeezed the banister. “I think I’ve had enough for one night,” he admitted. “It’s … given me a lot to think about.”

Hank tipped his chin. Say no more. “Grab your coat, I’ll get Sumo.”

For as good an afternoon as they’d had, Hank and Connor left the Manfred mansion quickly. They said their goodbyes and thanked their hosts and gift-givers, and wished all a happy new year. Sumo whimpered at the abrupt departure, but a shred of turkey from their doggy bag pacified him. Hank stepped out onto the driveway almost before he knew it, the mansion’s front door clicking shut as Connor tugged on his new beanie against a breeze that didn’t affect him.

With a sigh like smoke in the winter air, Hank pulled his keys from his coat pocket and started down toward his car. Sumo’s claws scrabbled loud over the grit alongside him – but he didn’t hear a second pair of shoes. He paused in a scrape of rubber on road salt, and turned back to seek out his partner.

Connor hugged his sides at the top of the drive, as still as one of Carl’s sculptures in the mulberry gloom of twilight. The ring at his temple burned like a beacon, flickering away to itself, the only sign that he hadn’t shut down where he stood.

Hank’s shoulders fell. Worry pooled in his gut like tar. “Hey …” he called. The lethargy of overeating vanished, his mind smacked alert by adrenaline and unease. He didn’t approach, not sure what to do. “What’s going on, Connor? Are you … what’s wrong?”

The android raised his head, and exhaled without vapour. “I’m sorry,” he said. His uncomfortable tone had Hank’s inner Papa Bear on-edge in an instant. “Nothing’s _wrong_ , exactly. Markus helped me understand something tonight. Something about myself. I’ve had a sort of … epiphany, I suppose.”

An epiphany? Hank swapped Sumo’s leash to his non-dominant hand, the sweat there stinging in the chill. “Anything I can help with?” he said. He could still smell food from the house, mixed in with the usual funky odours of Detroit at night.

The warmth that bloomed in Connor’s face could’ve melted the snow on the Manfreds’ roof. “In time, maybe,” he said. “I need to gather more data first. Rest assured, you’ll be the first to know when I reach a conclusion.”

Hank suppressed a smirk. What a dork. He twirled the loop of his keys around his index finger, metal jangling in the empty street. “If you say so,” he said. He gestured at the road with a jerk of his chin. “C’mon, before I catch pneumonia. Not all of us have air-con built in, y’know.”

Heh, air- _Con_.

Connor did not suppress _his_ smirk. “A poor analogy, Lieutenant,” he said, but started forward nonetheless. The December wind ruffled his curls and he pulled his beanie lower, collar flapping as he and Hank strolled toward the car with Sumo ambling behind. “It would be more accurate to compare my thermoregulatory systems to a culture incubator. My body maintains optimal temperature, humidity, and ventilation for peak performance. I’m worth a small fortune.”

Hank let out a long-suffering sigh. “You’re also a real dick, sometimes, Con.”

“I have an excellent role model.”

Hank unlocked his ancient car and helped Sumo into the back seat, then tossed his keys over the roof. Connor caught them deftly. The two men climbed in, Hank taking the passenger’s seat after fuck knows how many glasses of wine. He felt safe to drive, but trusted Connor’s judgement over his own.

The engine coughed to life at Connor’s touch, but he didn’t set the vehicle into drive right away. Hands on the wheel, he instead lifted one finger to point at something through the windshield.

The Manfreds’ Christmas decorations extended outside their house, streamers and ornaments woven into tidy hedgerows. Hank traced the line of Connor’s finger to a pair of floral wreaths, affixed to the pillars that framed the driveway. He hadn’t noticed them earlier, too wound-up and jittery from nerves.

“Look, Lieutenant,” said Connor. “Mistletoe.”

Hank squinted. Holly. The wreaths were woven from artificial holly, spiky leaves and deep red berries. Mistletoe had white berries. He snorted with laughter, just drunk enough not to question Connor’s mix-up. “Yup,” he teased. “Sure is.”

Their eyes met, and Hank sobered the fuck up at Connor’s hesitant expression.

Too late, something clicked in his mind. Mistletoe had _white_ berries, and there was no way in hell that Connor – with his trillion-dollar brain and twenty-four-seven access to the Internet – didn’t know that.

Streetlamps bathed the car’s interior in wan stripes of orange, casting blocky shadows over its occupants. Hank’s mouth dried up as he stared at Connor, tracing constellations in the smattering of freckles across his nose. Connor stared back, motionless and somehow vulnerable. The half-light made trenches of the hollows of his cheeks, gleamed off bottomless pupils Hank imagined losing himself in. It might’ve been the wine, but … right now, so quiet and open with the beanie covering his LED, the android looked more _human_ than he ever had. Hank wanted to reach out and smooth the fine hairs of his eyebrows, to run a thumb along the shell of his ear and kiss him silly under the guise of Christmas tradition.

Connor beat him to it. In a rustle of cloth, he leaned across the crumb-filled cup holder and kissed Hank on the cheek.

It was over in under a second, faster than Hank could comprehend what was happening. Connor’s lips were harder than they looked, cool and firm against his cheekbone, smooth like silicone. Then they were gone, stolen away as Connor retreated before Hank even had chance to splutter. Connor faced forward and rolled the car off the curb, _Knights of the Black Death_ screaming over the stunned silence that poured from Hank’s open mouth.

“Merry Christmas, Lieutenant.”

Hank sealed his lips and swallowed hard, brain firing in fits and starts as it caught up to the present. Embarrassed and confused, he twisted against his seatbelt to rest his forehead on the cold window. His heart pounded a mile a minute, the glass fogging up in the heat from his flush. “What was that for?”

Connor flicked an indicator with a peaceful smile, and worked the wheel to join the main road. “I just wanted to.”

–and Hank was always telling him to do what he wanted. The lieutenant hunkered down in his thick winter coat, Sumo already snoring from the back seat.

Maybe there was hope for this old romantic’s fantasy, after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is there no restroom downstairs in Carl’s house? The man is disabled. Anyway….
> 
> I held a poll on my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/toastycyborg) to determine if people felt Connor would kiss Hank as soon as he realised he was in love. The results were close, but “yes” won at 61%. My boyfriend also encouraged me to go for it. Still, I didn’t feel like my interpretation of Connor here would do a full-on mouth kiss – especially if he didn’t know Hank liked him back. So, we get this precious little peck. It’ll give our boys plenty to think about, that’s for sure.


	7. Jamais Vu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor’s first day back at work is more stressful than predicted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta’d by **ametrineluckyfashion** and **bloodsbane** , once more. Thank you!
> 
> Minor characters present in this chapter: Captain Fowler, Chris Miller, Ben Collins, non-canon Chloe model.

 

DATE

 **DEC 28TH** , 2038

TIME

PM **08:47** :51

 

 

Connor’s return to work unfolded quite differently than his first day on the job.

For one, he began the morning in Hank’s lounge instead of the CyberLife tower. He awoke from stasis on the couch, having powered down overnight to optimise his systems. He dressed himself in the smartest clothes he owned – his olive dress shirt and corduroy trousers – instead of his RK800 uniform, fed and played with Sumo, and made his partner a light breakfast and a thermos full of coffee.

At eight-fifteen, before Hank had even set foot in the shower, Connor left the house. He slipped into the passenger seat of Hank’s car, and fidgeted with his coin while sleet hammered the windows.

Patience had never come easy to Connor, especially post-deviation. He’d yearned for this day for _weeks_ , and he’d sooner rip out his own optical units than be late.

The ride to the station seemed to take an eternity. Connor timed it to the microsecond but his twitchy processors betrayed him, calculating how much sooner he’d arrive if he got out of the car and ran. He squeezed his seatbelt to stay put, ignoring prompts to download traffic reports. His LED pulsed yellow at his temple, bright with anxious excitement.

If Hank noticed the glow, he didn’t comment. Nor did he comment on the silver blur that was Connor’s coin, pinging across his knuckles in a way that once would’ve made Hank snap.

When the lieutenant finally, _finally_ , pulled into his usual parking space outside the police station, he twisted in his seat to look Connor over. His dominant hand rested atop the wheel, grip loose while the engine ticked down.

“Y’all right?” he said.

Connor flicked his eyes sideward to meet Hank’s watchful blues. The larger man sat bundled up against the cold, quiet and still as he awaited Connor’s reply. Frost on the windows blurred the monochrome street beyond the glass. Isolated from the world, the car’s interior smelled of aftershave and artificial pine from the tree-shaped air freshener.

“Of course,” said Connor, over the pounding of sleet on the metal roof. He shook a stray curl out of his face, but his grin glitched somewhere between his motor cortex and expression. Raw nerves would do that to a deviant. “I’m eager to resume my duties. It will be stimulating to work with the DPD again.”

Hank’s eyes narrowed, into the sort of calculating look he wore around suspects. “Just remember what I said about Gavin, yeah?” he said. “Prick’s been salty ever since he heard you were comin’ back. More than usual, I mean. Seems to think you’re gonna replace him – which in my mind wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

“I believe that was his issue with me to begin with,” Connor muttered. He drew himself up, adamant. “Don’t worry, Hank. I have no intention of letting Detective Reed upset me. On the contrary – I wish to establish a healthy working relationship with all our colleagues.”

Hank snorted, and shoved open the driver-side door to a curtain of frozen rain. Connor followed suit and climbed out of the car, both men drenched in seconds as they hurried to escape the weather. Connor jogged in front up the precinct’s steps, and held the door to let his partner duck inside first.

The instant Connor’s wet shoes struck the grey tile floor, pleasant nostalgia warmed his insides. He glanced down at the grand DPD logo emblazoned underfoot, rainwater dripping from his curls and nose. It felt surreal to stand here again. Comfortable sounds filled his audio processors: chatter and announcements over a PA system, ringing telephones and the hiss of a coffee machine. All familiar, all welcome. He felt at home, though in a different way than he did inside Hank’s house.

People sat waiting around the lobby in white plastic seats, a blend of humans and androids. A receptionist smiled at the new arrivals, a freckled ST300 with blond hair instead of the usual brown. Behind her, a large blue screen scrolled with news bulletins and emergency contact numbers – including a new hotline for android crimes.

Same scene, different details. Androids were welcome, now. If Connor had the ability to dream, he imagined it might feel something like this.

Swatting sleet from his shoulders, Hank gestured with a chin-jerk for his partner to approach the front desk. Connor did so, core clenched with tension and pride. He stepped up to the line and the unoccupied ST300 waved in greeting, waggling her manicured fingers at Hank.

“Good morning, Lieutenant Anderson,” she said, too cheery for her to be anything but a deviant. “It’s rare to see you so early! What’s the occasion?”

Hank’s sigh conveyed without words that the hour of his arrival had not been his choice. He squeezed his thermos in a throttling grip. “Mornin’, Louise.”

The receptionist giggled. She then turned her attention to Hank’s companion, who stood amused by the exchange. “You are Connor, correct?” she said. She was the same model as the android who’d greeted Connor on his first visit to the precinct, though she lacked the neon-blue band around her right arm. The revised American Androids Act forbade forcing their kind into uniforms that marked them as non-human, to help prevent discrimination.

“Yes,” said Connor, puffing out his chest. “I have temporary clearance to enter the premises, for use until I am issued my credentials. Do you need to see it?”

“Please.”

Connor transmitted the data in a flurry of blinks, and Louise nodded to the restricted access barrier on her left. “Thank you, Detective,” she beamed. “Captain Fowler expects you in his office right away.” She looked to Hank. “The captain also requests that you file your report on the Castaneda case at your earliest convenience. Have a good day!”

It took Connor a moment to process the implied goodbye, a little stunned. _Detective_. She’d called him ‘Detective’. Connor wished Louise a merry farewell before tailing Hank, through the restricted barrier and a sliding glass door into the large room beyond.

The bullpen’s layout hadn’t changed much since Connor’s departure. Neat workstations with computer terminals and name placards divided the space, officers striding to and fro. The one major difference was the absence of android parking stations along the walls. Instead, the department’s few PC200 and PM700 units gathered to chat and refuel in the break room. Most of them had removed their LEDs, a popular choice among deviants.

Connor followed his partner across the room, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. His good mood was bolstered further by a friendly greeting from Officer Miller, who stood slurping coffee with his android peers. Chris raised his chipped mug as Connor strolled through his line of sight, and Connor waved in response.

Upon reaching his workstation, Hank shucked his sodden coat and threw himself into his chair. His desk remained the messiest of all the police officers’, followed closely by that of Detective Collins. At least Hank no longer kept unhealthy snacks within arm’s reach, thought Connor, unlike Ben and his box of chocolate-covered doughnuts.

Hank booted up his terminal and sat back, and uncapped his thermos in a coil of steam. When he noticed Connor still hovering in his peripheral vision, he raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you gonna see Fowler?” he said, focused on his coffee. Hank then glanced up to find Connor’s gaze elsewhere, distant and fixed somewhere off to the left. The lieutenant grew concerned. “Con?”

“In a moment,” Connor replied, quieter than he intended.

On autopilot, he circled Hank’s half of the desk to the vacant workstation on the other side. This had been _his_ space, for one brief moment last month. Connor’s desk. He didn’t pull out its stiff chair, but reached to brush the tips of two digits to the cool tabletop. His sensors, tactile and optical alike, registered a layer of dust on its surface, no prints or trace oils from recent use. The name placard remained blank, no coffee mugs or case files left out to imply Hank had a desk-buddy.

Something told Connor that Hank had fought to keep it this way, and the thought made his palm itch. His dermal layer peeled away there – exposing the bare, off-white chassis of his hand as if trying to interface with the table.

Little had changed between the partners since Christmas Day. They continued their lives as normal, a platonic friendship suitable for housemates and co-workers. Connor’s impulsive ‘mistletoe’ kiss hadn’t triggered a shift in how they acted around each other. Hank didn’t treat him any different – still hugged him after work and took him shopping, and argued to help out with chores around the house. Hank touched him the same way he had before, albeit a little more often; head-pats and ruffled hair, a clap on his shoulder whenever Connor did something thoughtful.

Connor felt glad of the normalcy. Recognising his attraction to Hank had been no small thing, and it sat heavy within him at every waking moment. He needed time to explore what it meant, to think through possibilities and figure out what he wanted … and to assess Hank’s own feelings toward _him_. Connor refused to rush into anything, especially something his partner might not be comfortable with.

Except, Hank _was_ comfortable with it. Connor could see it now. There _had_ been a shift since Christmas, and it was in Connor’s understanding of their relationship.

Every interaction they’d had held deeper meaning after his revelation, subtext he’d missed in the moment. The touches, the _looks_ , the way Hank got flustered and bent over backwards to accommodate him. Connor could recognise desire in humans, the same way he deciphered their emotions physical cues. Elevated heart rate, pupil dilation, increased production of sweat and adrenaline and norepinephrine. Over the last month, he’d observed all of these symptoms in Hank – but _romance_ was such a foreign concept to Connor, he hadn’t connected the dots until now.

He’d never imagined himself loving someone, or being loved in return.

Connor’s skin reformed and he lifted his fingers from the desk, and brought them to his parted lips. A drag of his tongue filled his vision with data, listing chemicals in the fluid last used to clean the table and the organic compounds of dusty dead skin cells. He found nothing untoward or unexpected, but his curiosity wasn’t entirely innocent.

To test a theory, Connor studied his sample far longer than necessary. When he pulled his fingers away, mouth left open, a fine string of analysis fluid linked them to his tongue. It stretched like saliva until it snapped and beaded wet on his lower lip, and Connor flicked his gaze across to Hank.

Hank flinched, caught staring, and ducked to type at his terminal. Forcing himself to focus on the report requested by Fowler, no doubt. A surface scan detected an acceleration of the lieutenant’s pulse, visible in the side of his neck, his ears flushed pink through his hair. A week ago, Connor would have chalked it up to embarrassment over being found slacking off. Now, he knew better.

Hank liked him. Was interested in him, enough to freeze up watching him lick himself. The exact extent of this interest, Connor didn’t know. Love and lust weren’t interchangeable, but it was clear Hank harboured some degree of both toward him. Though pleased and intrigued, Connor for now felt content to let this thing between them develop by itself.

He removed his wet coat, and draped it over the back of the empty chair across from Hank’s. _His_ chair. He could personalise it, he thought, collect some clutter to truly make this half of the table his own. His glass paperweight, photos of Sumo … an obnoxious coffee mug or two, for the hell of it. Connor brightened at the thought.

“I’d best not keep the captain waiting,” he said.

Hank acknowledged him with a grunt, shoulders hunched. Connor then turned on his heel and strode away, weaving between cops toward the steps that led up to Fowler’s office.

He met eyes with the captain from outside his office, through the spotless glass walls that let Fowler watch over the bullpen. Seated at his desk, Fowler motioned for silence as Connor entered. With his other hand, the stern-looking human held his cell phone to his ear. Connor shut the door noiselessly behind himself and fell still, arms behind his back as he waited for Fowler to finish his call.

Even if he did not have access to the man’s impressive service history, Connor would have respected Fowler from the décor of his office alone. The many awards that lined the room spoke of a decorated veteran, who’d earned ranks in the US Air Force and Army alike before joining the police. Detroit Gears memorabilia and a novelty pen-holder tempered the aesthetic somewhat, but not enough to comfort any young child who happened to wander inside. Connor considered the potted aloe plant on the floor, noting that it could use a drink. Hank’s plants at home sported better health than this one.

Fowler ended his phone call with a sigh, and Connor snapped to the present. He watched the captain set his cell facedown, swivel in his chair to stretch his legs, and wipe sweat from his brow. Fowler then squinted at Connor for a long moment, and gestured to the empty chair across his desk.

“Take a seat,” he said.

Connor complied, smoothing the front of his button-up as he did. “Thank you, Captain,” he said. Weighing Fowler’s mood, he dared to continue. “I’d like you to know how much I appreciate you convincing your superiors to hire me. I’ll do my very best to repay your trust.”

Fowler sighed again, with more force than the first time. Connor caught an excess of caffeine on his breath, trace scents of egg and cheese from the breakfast sandwich he’d consumed in the last hour. “Don’t be a suck-up, all right?” shot Fowler. He pointed at Connor, his weight leaned on the opposite elbow. “You’re a good cop. Android, human, I don’t give a shit. You made more progress on the deviancy cases in one week than the rest of my men did in nine _months_. That’s what I care about.”

Connor fidgeted. The captain’s harsh, semi-aggressive tone framed his praise strangely – leaving Connor unsure if he should be flattered or insulted.

Fowler’s chair creaked as he sat back, his mouth a firm line. “You’re good for this department,” he said, no-nonsense. His aura then softened, the change almost imperceptible. “And … for Hank. You two work well together. Since you showed up, he’s really cleaned up his act. I’m glad to see my old friend get back on his feet – but _don’t_ think that entitles you to special treatment. You’re a cop, and I expect results. Understand?”

Connor squared his shoulders. “Of course.”

Lips pursed in appraisal, Fowler heaved himself upright. He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his slacks, and circled his polished desk until he stood between it and Connor. With a third heavy exhale, he perched himself on the table’s edge. “A lot of eyes are gonna be on you both,” he said. “Hank’s on thin ice for assaulting Perkins, and you … well. Let’s say we’re in uncharted territory. You’re the first deviant detective. You’re settin’ a lot of examples, so it means more if you fuck up now. Can you deal with that?”

The android drew himself up in his chair. “Yes, sir,” he said with confidence. “I’ll make you proud, Captain.”

For the first time, a hint of warmth touched Fowler’s face. He then leaned back atop his desk, and opened its top drawer to rummage for something inside. “Then, I guess you should have _this_.”

Connor reached out on instinct. When the captain dropped a small metallic object into his palm, his pump regulator stuttered.

The shield-shaped badge gleamed in the blue light of Fowler’s office, shiny gold and embossed with the DPD’s coat of arms. Connor traced a thumb along its cool edge, wide eyes glued to the words stamped into the enamel finish. _Police Detective, 317-51, Detroit_. His throat closed up and he found himself fighting a peculiar heat behind his optical units, the roof of his mouth like sandpaper.

“Take care of it,” said Fowler. Connor pulled himself together, found the instruction easier to parse than his own swell of emotion. Fowler crossed his arms. “We’re still workin’ on issuing you a firearm. You’d think it’d be easier, with how fuckin’ gun-happy this country is – but some laws are harder to rewrite than others.”

Connor cradled his badge with reverence, as if it were some sacred gemstone to be handled with care. “To be honest with you, Captain,” he said, calmer than he felt, “I’m fine without a weapon. If I can avoid injuring suspects, I will.”

Fowler hummed his approval. “Good man,” he said. A fourth, final sigh. “All right, get to work. There’s a goddamn stack of android-related cases waitin’ for you.”

Connor all but sprang upright, eager to sink his teeth in. “Thank you, sir,” he said. As Fowler rose, already reaching for his phone again, Connor strode away and let himself out of the office.

The android closed the door behind himself but paused on the top step, staring down at his precious new badge. Core thrumming, he clipped the little shield securely to his belt. Most uniformed cops pinned their badges over their hearts, but plainclothes officers weren’t bound by the same rules. Feeling somehow taller than he ever had, Connor descended into the bullpen and made a beeline for Hank’s workstation.

The lieutenant hadn’t moved from his terminal, still typing away at his report. He glanced up when Connor approached. Smirking at the new addition to his partner’s outfit, he tapped a series of keys to save and close his document.

“Fresh body just dropped in the financial district,” he said. “CCTV was wiped, no prints. Wanna check it out?”

Connor grabbed his coat. “Let’s go.”

 

~

 

Tablet computer in hand, Detective Ben Collins hid from the sleet in the entrance of an office complex in downtown Detroit. He glanced up when a familiar old sedan pulled up outside, bringing with it the frantic bass of heavy metal. The music and engine both cut off once the car shuddered to a halt, and its loudly dressed driver shoved his door wide to exit.

“Mornin’, Hank,” Ben called from his post. The passenger-side door then opened in a squeak of hinges, and Ben brightened when a young face he knew appeared over the vehicle’s roof. The android had a new hairstyle, his curls weighed down by the rain, but otherwise there was no mistaking him. “Connor, good to see ya! Guess your exams went well, eh?”

The android shut his door with a grin. “Yes, thank you,” he said. “I hope you had a good Christmas, Detective Collins.”

Car locked, Hank hustled across the sidewalk to join Ben indoors. He clapped the man on the back in greeting, swiped bedraggled hair out of his face, then unscrewed the lid of his thermos to take a swig of coffee. “What’ve we got?”

Connor trailed behind as Ben led the way into the office complex. He took his time to profile his surroundings, registering every detail of the nondescript reception area and well-lit hallway. Atmosphere quality, airborne trace chemicals, discreet cameras embedded in the ceiling. The CCTV had no safeguards against hacking; he would access its records later, to see if he could learn who’d erased the footage. Wet shoe prints crisscrossed the laminate floor, too many to decipher without a clue to work from. Police officers milled about the hall, taking statements from employees as the detectives passed.

“Victim is Toby Schroeder, an accountant with the L&K investment group,” said Ben, referencing his tablet. The trio turned a corner into the mouth of a side room, whose door stood wedged open while a camera flashed within. Ben stopped and passed his tablet to Hank, but kept talking. “We’ll have a time of death once the coroner gets here, but the cleaner found him this morning. Said he was still workin’ when she finished her shift at nine last night.”

The CSI taking photos of the crime scene got up and left. While Ben and Hank chatted in the hallway, clothes dripping water all over the floor, Connor slipped between them and entered the room.

He swept his gaze from left to right, absorbing the environment. The small space appeared to be for storage, lined with overstuffed filing cabinets and shelves of old-fashioned ring binders. On the floor, a middle-aged man sprawled flat on his back. Caucasian, pale, balding and underweight, dressed in a grey business suit and cracked reading glasses. By the victim’s feet lay a toppled stack of folders, bent and dirty as if trodden on.

Connor knelt beside the corpse, near the dark crimson pool soaked into the carpet under its head. A cursory scan confirmed Schroeder’s identity, attached to which was a criminal record of common assault and battery. Initial analysis revealed the cause of death as blunt-force trauma to the back of his skull. From rigor mortis and body temperature, Connor placed time of death at around three o’clock that morning.

He found perimortem bruises on Schroeder’s forearms and face, suggesting confrontation, his knuckles grazed but no foreign skin cells embedded in the scuffs. Connor shifted on his knees, leaned for a better look at the head wound through the victim’s thin hair. Indifferent to the gore, he then twisted to inspect the closest file cabinet. More blood painted the unit’s top edge, dried rivulets running down a huge dent in the metal beneath. Connor reached out and ran two digits over the stain, and touched the flakes that came away to his tongue. _DNA analysis: SCHROEDER, Toby. Sample date: <10 hours._ No alcohol or illegal substances detected.

Connor rose to his feet, time halting around him as he ran a reconstruction from available clues.

Rips in Schroeder’s sleeves implied that he had engaged in violence with someone. They had locked arms and struggled to overpower each other, before Schroeder tripped backwards over the now-spilled stack of files on the floor. In Connor’s mind palace, the victim’s wireframe outline slammed its skull into the edge of the cabinet as he fell. Schroeder then crumpled into his current position, dead on impact.

Something about it didn’t sit right with Connor. He’d missed something. The way Schroeder fell … such a deep dent in the cabinet could not have been caused by the mass of one malnourished human alone.

Connor rewound the reconstruction, back to when Schroeder stood alive and fighting. A second wireframe figure materialised in the cramped room, grappling with Schroeder. They wrestled for several moments, Schroeder more aggressive than his smaller opponent. This time, when he tripped over the folders, Schroeder dragged his adversary with him. They _both_ hit the unit, the dent made by their combined weight.

Connor surfaced from his reconstruction. Approaching the cabinet, he crouched for a more thorough scan. This closer inspection revealed another splatter of dried fluid on the warped metal – this one as blue as cobalt, and invisible to the naked eye.

Carpet-muffled footfalls announced Hank’s presence. “See somethin’?” he said.

Connor remained in his squat, not sparing Hank a glance. “Evaporated thirium,” he said. “The victim was engaged in a physical altercation after-hours, when he fell backwards and split his skull open on this unit. From the blue blood here” – Connor pointed to the stain Hank couldn’t see – “I suspect his opponent was an android, who also took damage when they fell. Schroeder had a history of violence.”

“All right, good start,” said Hank. He hitched up his trousers to crouch over Schroeder, taking in the fatal wound. “So, have we got an aggressive deviant with a screw loose, good old-fashioned android hate crime gone wrong, or somethin’ else?”

Connor cast a haze over his partner. “I’m not sure,” he said. A trickle of rainwater broke free of his hairline, rolling down over his temple. “The victim _tripped_ , on loose folders on the floor, and his bruises don’t appear offensive in nature. His opponent wasn’t using lethal force. I believe his death was an accident.”

Hank sat up. “Manslaughter, then, self-defence,” he said. He scooted mid-squat to check Schroeder’s pockets, but found nothing more interesting than L&K business cards. “Any chance you can ID our suspect from the thirium?”

Connor looked to the azure stain on the cabinet. He swiped a sample with a clean finger, and this time made sure Hank’s eyes were elsewhere before inserting the digit into his mouth. _Analysis: blue blood, model ST200. Serial number #639 530 623._

Connor’s LED flickered yellow as he cross-referenced the data. “A Chloe model,” he said, “registered to Jack Bennett … a self-employed real estate investor, here in Detroit. Neither Bennett nor his Chloe have any link to Schroeder, as far as I can tell. She works from his home as his personal assistant.”

Brow knit, Hank sank back on his heels. “So, what was she doing here?” he said. Shrugged. “Schroeder worked for an investment group. Any transactions or friction between them and Bennett?”

With a grimace of effort, Connor wirelessly connected to L&K’s mainframe elsewhere in the complex. He scoured every database he could find, frustration mounting as he failed to find a link. “None that I can – wait.” The company’s employee records overlapped his vision, strings of relevant data highlighted. “Hm … our victim used to have a Chloe model of his own, also as a personal assistant. She left to travel after Markus’s protests. She’s currently in Amsterdam, but her login credentials were used at two-fifty-two this morning to access L&K’s accounts – from _inside_ the building.”

Hank rose from the floor with a noise of discomfort. “Could be Bennett’s Chloe impersonated Schroeder’s, to get access to this place,” he said. He gestured without meaning about the small, cluttered room. “He was workin’ late, found her out, and cornered her in here. They tussled, and … that was that. What’d she do in the accounts?”

“Altered numbers,” Connor replied at once, already combing the company’s financial records. With his unmatched processing speed, he dissected in seconds a slew of information that would have taken a forensic accountant _weeks_ to review.  “She covered her tracks well, but this data has clearly been falsified. Almost thirteen thousand dollars is missing from the L&K’s accounts. She must have moved it to another, and deleted all records of the transfer.”

Hank sniffed. “Well,” he said, “that explains why she and Schroeder fought. You got Bennett’s address?”

Smoothly, Connor stood and brushed dust from his trousers. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll be ready to leave in five minutes, Lieutenant. I want to go over this space, make sure I’ve not overlooked anything.”

With a chuckle, Hank uncapped his thermos again and strolled off. “Fuckin’-A,” he said. “Y’always gotta make me wait, don’t you?”

Feeling bold, Connor dared to raise a suggestive eyebrow. “I’ve heard that delays can make the eventual reward feel more satisfying.”

Hank choked on coffee. He turned to stare at Connor from the open doorway, mouth agape and Ben – mercy of mercies – nowhere in sight. “Did you just … make a sex joke?” he said. At Connor’s awkward smirk, Hank snickered. “Kid, I’m proud of you – but _Jesus_. Have some respect for the dead. Fuckin’ _inappropriate_ , Connor.”

 

~

 

Bennett’s home boasted curb appeal, a brick building on Cambridge Avenue with lush lawns and a geometric roof. A fitting abode for a real estate investor, Connor thought. The rain had eased by the time Hank’s sedan mounted the curb, thinned to a fine spray that washed the world in dull hues and a steady hiss of sound.

Hank left his thermos in the car, unbuckling at the same time as Connor to step out and approach the gorgeous house. Hank led the way up the gravel path, and rang the doorbell once they took shelter beneath the covered porch.

Connor found it easy to let his partner take the lead. Hank interacted better with strangers than he did, despite the lieutenant’s gruffness and Connor’s specialised social module. Most humans were just more inclined to trust Hank over a machine designed to get inside their mind. Connor didn’t take offence. Instead, he used the opportunity to hang back and assess – to first build a mental profile of potential suspects, and an angle from which to attack.

Though Connor detected a heat signature within the house, it took two more rings of the bell and a round of knocking for anyone to answer the summons. The door cracked open and a sliver of a young, male, nervous face appeared in the gap, framed by long, shaggy hair and crossed by a security chain.

“No doorstop sellers, please,” the resident mumbled, hoarse and meek.

Hank held up his badge, and the man’s visible eye widened. “Jack Bennett?” said Hank. At the man’s shaky ‘yes?’, Hank cleared his throat. “Lieutenant Anderson, with the DPD. This is Connor, Detective. Can we come in?”

Bennett’s stare skimmed over his visitors, snagging on the blue ring of light at Connor’s right temple. Connor offered a pleasant smile, in attempt to appear non-threatening. He heard Bennett gulp above the rain and traffic noise, noted a quickening of his pulse as the man shut his front door to unlatch the security chain. The door then swung wide and Bennett shuffled out of the way, and beckoned the officers into his home.

Connor scanned his face in passing. Twenty-nine, born in Vancouver, not even a speeding ticket to his name. Diagnosed with sleep terrors and chronic anxiety. Connor caught no substances on his breath besides an excess of black tea, his sweater flecked with long white dog hairs.

Bennett tied back his own hair as he led the cops into his front lounge. The décor was tasteful, elegant browns and creams with a bookcase sporting trinkets. Bennett straightened the still-warm couch cushions where he’d lain and shut his laptop with a _snap_ , and motioned for his guests to sit where they pleased. Connor stayed upright while Hank took the corner of the sofa, and Bennett perched on the opposite end with his knees clamped together.

“What’s … did I do something wrong?” he stammered.

Hank made a calming gesture. “Relax, son,” he said. “You’re not in trouble. Just wanna ask you a few questions, if that’s okay. You live here with an android, right?”

Bennett took a huge breath, picking at the label of his sweater. “Y-yeah – Lilly,” he said. “My assistant. She takes care of me. She’s out with our dog right now, getting groceries.”

Connor strolled to inspect the bookcase, interest catching on a green-blue Chinese plate whose cracks had been filled with gold. The tip of his shoe nudged a plastic bowl on the floor, filled with scraps of chicken and half-eaten kibble. He stooped to straighten it, and plucked a dog hair from the rim of the dish. A scan told him it belonged to a Maltese – a good breed for someone with anxiety, small and affectionate.

“You ever had any contact with the L&K investment group?” said Hank, languid on the couch.

Bennett frowned at him, and glanced to Connor. “I don’t think so?” he said. “I’d have to look it up. Lilly’s better at remembering stuff than I am.”

Connor approached the sofa at a measured pace. “How about this man?” he said. He displayed a palm, projecting a copy of Schroeder’s driving license photo. Bennett squinted at the image for two-point-nine seconds, then shook his head. “Toby Schroeder. Has Lilly ever mentioned that name to you?”

Bennett’s frown twisted with worry. “No – what’s going on?” he said. He paled, pulse spiking. “Is … is Lilly okay?”

Connor withdrew. He’d caught no tells, no micro-expressions to suggest Bennett was lying. His nerves stemmed from his mental health condition alone. One eyebrow cocked, Connor glanced to Hank for permission. At Hank’s nod, Connor reworked his facial features into something neutral. “We discovered her blood at a crime scene,” he said. Bennett blinked, uncomprehending. Connor continued. “Mr. Schroeder’s body was found in his place of work. He died at around three o’clock this morning. Do you know where Lilly was at that time?”

Bennett gawped at the detective for a long moment, horror and disbelief stark in his every premature wrinkle. “You … _Lilly’s_ blood? Are you sure?” he said. When Connor confirmed it, Bennett slumped to bite his knuckles. “I don’t … she … she was _here_. I have night terrors – she stays with me to make sure I’m okay.”

Connor leaned in, sympathetic. “Mr. Bennett,” he said. “Can you _confirm_ that Lilly was present with you, between the hours of two and three this morning?”

Bennett looked up again, pleading as he met Connor’s eyes. He then lowered his own, their edges pink and glistening. “N-no,” he said. “I … I was asleep. But she … she wouldn’t….”

Hank hunched closer, his air fatherly and kind. “Circumstances of the death looked accidental,” he told the distressed young man. “We think Schroeder attacked her, and she defended herself. How did she seem this mornin’, before she went shopping?”

The laugh Bennett let out in response was joyless and hollow, overwhelmed. “She was _fine_ ,” he said. He twisted the hem of his sweater into a tight line, wrung it as one might squeeze water from a dishcloth. His tears welled over and Connor slid into action, moved the box of tissues from the coffee table to Bennett’s side. The human didn’t seem to notice. “I mean … she was a bit quiet, but … she made breakfast, like normal. Helped with my exercises. I didn’t know anything was _wrong_. You said … this guy attacked her?”

Connor watched Hank fiddle with a fold in his jeans, as if deliberating how much he should say. “We think Lilly impersonated another Chloe to get into L&K’s computer systems,” he explained. “Schroeder found her out, and they struggled.”

Bennett wrung his sweater harder, fighting not to crumble. “Why would she do any of that?” he said. “Lilly’s … she’s so sweet, and kind. God, please tell me this is some crazy mistake….”

“I’m sorry,” said Connor, as gentle as he could. “We’ll need to speak with her. Do you know when she might be back?”

With a quivering chin, Bennett grabbed his cell phone from a bowl of coins on the coffee table. “I’ll text her,” he said, already typing. “Say I’m having an episode, and … and I need her home.”

Hank sank back into the couch. “Appreciated,” he murmured. “M’really sorry about all this. D’you need anything?”

Bennett sent his message with a mutter of ‘no’. He set down his phone and exhaled for four solid seconds, holding for a further four before drawing a deep inhale. Connor recognised the cycle as _square breathing_ , an anxiety-management technique.

An uneasy silence doused the lounge as Bennett steadied himself. It loomed in every corner, stifling for the seven minutes and thirty-nine seconds until the wayward Chloe returned.

Connor heard the yaps of a small dog first, then the click of a key in a lock. Hank rose from the sofa and Connor positioned himself beside him, Bennett hovering with his phone clutched like a lifeline. The front door clunked open and a black-haired Chloe stepped inside, weighed down by reusable shopping bags and the leash of an agitated Maltese.

“Ssh, Wilson, quiet …” she soothed the hound. The small dog continued to howl, tugging to get at the intruders in his domain.

Preoccupied with her bags, Lilly didn’t notice the police officers until she’d relocked the door and turned around. She froze when she spotted Connor and Hank – her keys, shopping, and Wilson’s leash all tumbling to the floor. The freed Maltese scrambled toward Hank, sniffing madly at the scent of another canine on his clothes. Hank doubled over to pat the tiny beast, its affection won in a heartbeat.

Lilly’s bright blue eyes swept to Bennett, who stood trembling near the strangers. With one look at his pitiful state, Lilly abandoned her bags and made a beeline for her employee. Her hands came up to cup Bennett’s tear-streaked face and comfort him – but he twisted away from her touch, shied into himself.

Lilly faltered. “Jack…?” she said. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”

The Maltese moved on from Hank to investigate Connor’s shoelaces, but Bennett scooped the creature up into his arms. Dog squirming in his grip, Bennett cleared his throat. “These cops want to talk to you, Lil,” he said, voice frail and hurt.

Lilly’s fine eyebrows came together, before lifting in a puzzled but hospitable smile. A classic Chloe, thought Connor, ever-courteous. “I see,” she said. She gestured to the kitchen. “Well … can I get you something to drink, officers?”

Connor declined after assessing his thirium levels. His partner also turned her down. “No, thanks,” said Hank. When Bennett swayed on his feet from the Maltese’s struggles to break free, Hank took the man’s shoulder in a consoling grip. “Let’s sit, Mr. Bennett. I’ve got a few more questions, if that’s all right?”

Bennett returned to the couch without another word, his posture dejected. As he and Hank took seats, the Maltese claiming Hank’s lap as a bed, Connor approached where Lilly hovered in concern.

“May I help you with your shopping?” he said.

Caught off-guard by his offer, the dark-haired Chloe removed her soaked coat. “Oh, you don’t have to do that….”

Regardless, the detective crossed with Lilly to the front door. He collected two of her dropped bags from the carpet, while she hung her coat on a peg on the wall. From one of the containers, he caught a whiff of fresh-baked bread. As he aided her, Connor watched Lilly’s level of stress drop by six percent; he pinned the meter to his HUD to keep an eye on it, hoping to avoid disaster. Connor helped his suspect carry groceries into the spacious kitchen, where they set the bags on the breakfast bar to be sorted.

He knew what Hank had done. By separating Bennett and Lilly, he’d eased some of the tension while allowing Connor to question the deviant alone. Jack’s anxiety clearly upset Lilly, and they needed her calm. Connor didn’t want to arrest her outright, at least until he knew the whole story. She wasn’t violent: Schroeder’s bruises hadn’t been made with lethal force, after all, but there was no telling if she’d try to self-destruct under pressure.

“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?” said Lilly, a little too quick, as she opened the tall refrigerator to begin storing perishables. “I picked up some fresh thirium pouches. There’s plenty to spare, sir.”

Politely, Connor declined again. He leaned both elbows atop the immaculate breakfast bar, his air casual as he studied her over the wall of shopping bags. “Please, ‘Connor’ is fine,” he said. “I’m a detective with the DPD. If you have time, I need you to answer some questions.”

Her back to him, Lilly’s shoulders sank. In contrast, her stress level jumped up by thirteen percent. Connor swallowed hard. He’d have to be delicate with his words. Lilly gripped the open doors of the fridge, dark hair shivering as a cool breeze rushed out and over her.

“I know who you are,” she said, almost a whisper. “You’re the deviant hunter. Forgive me, it’s … I know things have changed, but, you’re still a little scary.”

Connor held in a cringe, saddened but not shocked to learn that androids still feared him. “I’m sorry,” he said. He chose his approach with care, selecting his most sympathetic dialogue options to try and put her at ease. “I promise, no-one’s going to hurt you. I’m here to help. It might be difficult, but … I’d like you to try and be honest with me. Can you do that, Lilly?”

The Chloe revolved to face him, the familiar curve to her plush lips now forced. She bobbed her head once, slack curls bouncing. At her temple, her LED churned yellow. Level of stress: fifty-one percent.

Connor offered her his kindest, most disarming smile. “Can you tell me where you were this morning, between about two and three?”

Red blipped into Lilly’s LED, there and gone again faster than a human could detect. Her entire demeanour changed, face blank and eyes averted. “Here,” she said. “I was – I was here, upstairs. Jack suffers from a sleeping condition. I don’t stray far from him at night, in case he needs my help.”

Connor nodded along to her words. The lie did not come unexpected, but he’d hoped she might confide in him. He didn’t believe her a _murderer_ , and would rather not intimidate her into admitting what really happened. He tried again, posture open and encouraging. “Have you ever been to the main office of the L&K investment group, in the financial district?”

Another red blip, another jump in her stress level. She began to fidget, hands restless before her stomach. “No…? I don’t think so.”

Connor shifted where he leaned against the breakfast bar. “Lilly …” he said. “You can trust me. It’s okay – I know what happened. It was an accident–”

“I said _no_!” she cut in, slapping her palms to the island. Her voice rang shrill, scared. Lilly’s eyes widened at her own outburst. In the pause that followed, she shrank in on herself behind the barrier of shopping bags. More scarlet bled into her LED, her stress level on a steady ascent. Connor tried to hold her gaze to establish trust, but his fellow deviant dropped hers almost at once. “I don’t know anything, please….”

“Schroeder attacked you, didn’t he?” said Connor, in the sort of tone one might use to tell a child their pet cat had been hit by a car. “I found your blood in a storage room at L&K. He caught you trespassing, you struggled … and he fell and hit his head. It was an accident. You never meant to harm anyone.”

Lilly stopped breathing. The absence of the process made Connor realise how loud it had been, the kitchen now filled with the echo of a clock and the hum of the open refrigerator. From the next room, he could hear the rumble of Hank’s voice where he talked with Bennett on the couch.

In her silence, Connor scanned the frightened Chloe’s face. Past her torn expression, he noticed an almost invisible ridge on her brow. Her dermal layer sat wrong in a curved line, raised by two millimetres like a seam of scar tissue. This must have been where she’d fallen against the cabinet, Connor realised, and she’d had a shoddy, short-notice repair job to replace the broken panel. It also explained why she picked up so much Thirium 310 in today’s shop, to replenish what she’d lost.

Connor straightened up without haste, no sudden movements. “Why did you access L&K’s accounts?” he implored, quiet and soft. “What happened to the money?”

His fellow deviant shook her head – a continuous motion, frantic and sustained. She said nothing, jaw clenched so tight that Connor saw synthetic tendons strain in her throat.

“I want to help you,” he nudged again, “but I can’t do that if you don’t tell me the truth. I know you were there, and I know you were hurt. It wasn’t your fault, Lilly. I _know_ that. But to prove it … you have to tell me everything.”

Lilly’s breath came back in a rush. A clear, saline-thirium compound spilled down her cheeks – synthetic tears, something Connor had never seen the need for in androids. The Chloe then reversed into the counter beside the fridge, and had to grip its marble edge to hold herself upright. Afraid she would fall, Connor stepped around the breakfast bar and reached to support her.

When he drew near, Lilly’s stress level – hovering at a high but safe sixty-five percent – skyrocketed.

She seized a kitchen knife from the block on the counter behind her, and pointed it square at Connor. “Don’t touch me!” she cried. The block crashed to the floor, the remaining knives clattering over the tile. Connor stopped dead. Preconstructions flooded his mind, highlighting Lilly’s joints and weak points and with prompts to disarm her. Kick out her feet, slam his forearm across her neck and pin her to the fridge, strike her wrist to dislodge the knife. He force-quit the program and stood still, alarmed by the pure fear in her stance.

A sudden shout from the lounge, Bennett’s voice. Connor glanced in time to watch him vault the couch, upsetting the coffee table in a rush to get to Lilly. Hank grabbed Bennett by the wrist, wrenched him back out of harm’s way. The humans flailed and in the brief struggle, Bennett’s elbow hit Hank’s nose with a dull _crack_. Hank’s pained grunt cut through the smaller man’s yells as he dragged Bennett away, wrestling him toward the bedroom. Hank dragged him inside and slammed the door behind them, out of sight.

With the humans safe, Connor refocused to find that Lilly hadn’t moved. She stood aquiver against the counter, LED hot scarlet with the knife still aimed at Connor’s chest. He felt an urge to shield his pump regulator. The tick of the clock grew deafening while the androids stared each other down, Lilly shifting foot-to-foot as she leaked tears and gasped to cool herself.

Slowly, Connor raised his empty palms. “No-one’s going to hurt you,” he assured her. “I promise. Please … put the knife down, and we’ll talk.”

“He’s dead,” Lilly choked out. “He’s dead … b-because of me. I … I’ll be deactivated, won’t I?”

“ _No_ ,” said Connor. Every biocomponent in him, his entire _being_ recoiled at the thought. “That’s not an option, Lilly, I promise. It doesn’t work like that anymore. We aren’t appliances to be thrown away when we do something wrong. We are _people_.”

Lilly licked her lips, squeezed the handle of her knife. It shook in her grip, her stress level dangerously high – but steady. “What’s going to happen to me?”

Connor’s expression changed without his consent, empathy and sadness too strong to keep inside. “I don’t know,” he said. “You’ll be arrested, taken to the station. Interviewed. After that … it depends on why and how you accessed L&K’s accounts. But, please believe me – nothing bad will happen to you. You have my word.”

Unlike with Daniel, it wasn’t a lie.

Lilly let out a shuddery breath, studied the detective for several long seconds. Connor didn’t count them. He monitored her stress level instead, watched it tick down while his thirium pump worked overtime. Lilly’s shoulders sagged, and – in a way that reminded Connor all too much of himself with a gun aboard Jericho – she lowered her knife. Connor moved forward, more careful this time, and took the weapon from her limp fingers. He set it aside with a clang, then stiffened when Lilly slumped against his chest.

“I’m so sorry …” she sobbed into his shirt. “I’m sorry, I’m _so sorry_ ….”

He wrapped his arms loose around her for support, but said nothing.

Connor called the station, and requested a car to come collect their suspect from Bennett’s house. While the two androids waited on the couch, Lilly crying into his shoulder, she confessed.

She’d met Schroeder’s Chloe – Isobel – three days ago, in an Internet chatroom for homeless androids. Many of Detroit’s deviants lived on the streets, either discarded for being ‘obsolete’ before the revolution or kicked out afterward. Few local shelters accepted androids, who seldom had the funds to sustain themselves. Lilly claimed the police didn’t care; she’d done what she could for the abandoned since she went deviant, but it never felt like enough.

When she met Isobel online, Isobel shared her sentiments and together they hatched a plan. With Isobel in Amsterdam, however, she couldn’t enact it herself. Instead, she instead gave Lilly her L&K login and taught her how to cover a money trail. Lilly would sneak in after-hours and move funds to an offshore account, from which she would give homeless deviants enough money to reach Jericho.

The Chloes planned it to the letter – but Schroeder had stayed late that night. He noticed ‘Isobel’ in L&K’s servers and went to investigate, and found Lilly instead. He assaulted the impostor, demanding to know where ‘his’ Chloe was and what she’d done with the cash.

The rest … Connor had deduced from the crime scene.

Connor hated everything about this case. He hated Schroeder’s aggression, and his possessiveness toward androids. He hated that he’d have to arrest Lilly for fraud, despite her good intentions. Most of all … he hated how there were enough rejected deviants on the streets to drive a respectable, altruistic soul like Lilly into crime. All she’d wanted to do was help, and it pained him that he had to punish her for it.

It pained him, because he knew he would’ve done the exact same thing if Isobel had come to _him_ with the plan.

Once the squad car rolled up, Connor alone escorted Lilly outside. She went without fuss, and was halfway into the vehicle when Bennett burst from his house to say goodbye. They hugged hard on the drowned sidewalk, both in floods of tears until the patrol officer separated them. Connor watched from afar, nursing an obstruction in his throat that his diagnostics insisted wasn’t there. He felt drained, overstretched, worn-out and fatigued from stress in a way he hadn’t known androids could experience.

A large, familiar hand settled on Connor’s shoulder. He closed his eyes, relaxed into the weight of it. “Let’s get outta here,” Hank’s voice swept over him. “We’ve done all we can.”

Connor turned toward his partner – and froze.

 _Blood_.

Blood streaked Hank’s face like war paint, encrusted in his beard and blotted down the front of his coat. Thick, red, _human_ blood. Connor’s eyes widened and his logic centre shut down, already on-edge before his mind began to spiral with worst-case scenarios. Bennett had stabbed him. Shot him with a hidden gun. Hank had an undiagnosed brain aneurysm, and it had ruptured. Connor seized his partner’s elbows with a strangled noise and tried to scan him, dread clutching his thirium pump so tight that it didn’t beat for three straight seconds.

_Human blood Hank’s blood bleeding he’s hurt blood everywhere he’s dying **do something** –_

“Ow, Connor!” Hank yelped. He tried to step back but Connor held fast, feet planted as he clamped Hank’s arms in a vice grip. “Fuck, what?! Let go!”

Connor did not. _Could not_ , every joint and actuator locked in place. His scanning software short-circuited, vision glitching with artefacts as he traced the source of the blood to Hank’s nostrils. The mental image of Schroeder’s corpse scorched through the horror, warping his senses. That could be Hank. So easily, that could be Hank – dead on the ground after smacking his thin skull in a stupid fall.

Humans were fragile, brittle. Humans could _die_.

With a start, Hank pieced together what was wrong. He twisted his arms with difficulty in Connor’s grasp to hold him in return, a soothing touch that matched the gentle shush on his lips.

“Hey – hey, I’m all right,” he said. Connor’s brain stuttered and lagged, cycling fear and loss over and over as he pictured Hank’s pale corpse. Shot by a drug dealer. Stabbed in an alley. Killed in a car wreck while chasing a suspect. A heart attack, liver failure after too much booze. Hank gave him a small shake. “Connor, I’m okay! Bennett conked my nose, is all. I’m fine. S’not even broken. _Calm down_.”

No response. Connor’s LED blazed scarlet on the rainy sidewalk, his eyes unseeing. He had no control. Couldn’t move, couldn’t _think_ past the images of his partner strewn lifeless in a pool of blood.

Hank realised, Connor wasn’t _there_. His body stood before Hank but his mind was gone, trapped in the ones and zeroes of his own fucking panic.

He didn’t even think about it. Hank pulled Connor into his front, manoeuvred the kid’s neck to press an audio processor over his pounding heart. It felt like hugging a mannequin, stiff and lifeless against his chest. The chill of the rain bit through Hank’s clothes but he didn’t care – would stand here for an hour if that’s what it took for Connor to snap out of it. He squinted up at the heavy clouds, blinking as frigid droplets struck his cheeks like needles.

After what felt like an age, Connor’s body relaxed from its rigidity. He sagged into the embrace, gathering fistfuls of Hank’s coat as he hid his face from the world. Hank felt him breathe at last, the robotic equivalent of a ribcage swelling in his arms. Hank pressed a kiss to the ring of light at Connor’s temple and hugged him tighter, the same way he used to comfort Cole after a nightmare.

“I’m all right,” he rumbled. “Promise. Come back to me, Con.”

The jut of Connor’s brow dug against Hank’s clavicle, cushioned by his collar. “I’m here,” he said. The hiss of sleet and traffic all but swallowed his tiny voice. “I’m sorry. I-I … I suffered a processing error. It shouldn’t happen again.”

“Hey,” said Hank, and he pulled back in a rustle of wet clothes. Connor ducked when they parted, as if ashamed of himself. Hank scowled. “Don’t apologise, you hear me? You overreacted. It happens.”

A crunch of tyres brought them both to reality, and they looked up to watch the patrol car pull away from Bennett’s house. Bennett stood by himself on the curb, arms crossed tight as he watched the vehicle turn a corner and vanish. Bennett looked to the nearby lieutenant and detective, bowed his head, and retreated into his home.

Hank felt for the guy. He really did – but right now, Connor needed his attention more. With a sigh, Hank fished his keys from his pocket and pressed them into his partner’s scarred palm. “Go wait in the car, yeah?” he said. “I’ll finish things here, clean myself up while I’m at it.”

Connor nodded numbly. Hank waited until his shaken partner had shut himself inside the vehicle and turned on the radio, before retracing his steps to Bennett’s open front door.

Fuckin’ hell.

 

~

 

If asked, Hank wouldn’t have been able to recount what happened for the rest of the day. He’d known Connor’s return to work wouldn’t be easy, dealing with stressful situations he hadn’t faced since before he had _emotions_. As he’d once told the kid, emotions always screwed everything up.

But this … this was hard.

When they got home that night, Hank steered Connor straight to the couch and forced him to lie down. Hank tossed a soft blanket over him, and almost threw out his back lifting Sumo to sprawl in Connor’s lap. He heated a saucepan of Thirium 310 on the stove – something told him it wasn’t safe to microwave – and poured it into a mug like cocoa on a bitter winter’s evening. He switched the TV to a documentary on the ocean, and forbade Connor from helping while he cooked his own dinner.

They didn’t talk much, but each other’s company gave comfort enough. Hank would be lying to claim he wasn’t worried about his partner, after watching him blue-screen-of-death over the sight of Hank’s blood.

That night, when the lieutenant’s bruised eyes grew dry and scratchy, Connor had a request. Instead of passing the hours Hank spent asleep in his usual productive ways, Connor asked to lie next to him in his bed.

Hank knew Connor didn’t _sleep_. He just wanted to be close.

On a normal night, Hank would’ve been a bit weirded-out by the thought of Connor watching him drool and snore. He imagined Connor scrutinising his heartbeat, recording his every breath and REM-sleep twitch until dawn broke. Tonight, though … he didn’t mind. The guy’d had a rough day.

Hank kept his T-shirt on instead of stripping to his boxers like normal, and climbed into bed before he could second-guess himself. Connor lay down fully-clothed, ramrod-straight under the covers, hands folded on his stomach. Hank rolled his back to him and switched off his bedside lamp, leaving the quiet room illuminated by the faint yellow glow of Connor’s LED.

Connor made no noise and he didn’t wriggle like a human would, but his body gave off warmth like a fucking space heater and Hank found that _divine_. By the time the android’s LED cycled down to blue, his bed-mate was already unconscious.

As Hank predicted, Connor monitored him through the night. He watched over his partner, found peace in his presence and steady vitals. Just before three o’clock, though, Connor couldn’t help but picture the scene of Schroeder’s death. Hank made a distressed noise, unrelated and deep in dreams. Throat tight, Connor shuffled closer. He pressed his forehead to the hollow between Hank’s shoulder blades, one hand splayed feather-light against the small of his back. Hank’s little huffs trailed to silence, and Connor relaxed.

Hank slept better that night than he had in years.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/toastycyborg)


	8. Electric Sheep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor downloads a patch that lets him ‘sleep’. Hank has concerns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Cole's death is briefly discussed in this chapter. Minor characters present: Sumo.
> 
> Beta’d by **ametrineluckyfashion** and **bloodsbane** <3

 

Connor was acting weird.

At first, Hank blamed it on the android being tired from starting back at work. Except, androids didn’t get tired. Connor was quieter, more serious, and somehow more _omnipresent_ than Hank had ever known him. Everywhere the lieutenant turned, Connor was there. He hovered over his partner like a goddamn Golden Retriever, a second shadow following Hank around. Watchful, vigilant, shepherding him about like a bodyguard. More than once, over dinner, Hank caught him scowling at the drawer in the kitchen where he kept his revolver.

Nothing extraordinary – but with the protectiveness ramped up to eleven.

The most frustrating part was, Connor wouldn’t let Hank do anything for himself. He kept sampling Hank’s coffee as if testing for poison, urging him to stay indoors while _he_ walked Sumo instead. He didn’t let Hank drive, chase perps, or even cook. Christ, Hank was ninety percent sure that Connor stood listening outside whenever he went to the fucking bathroom. What did the kid expect to bother him in there – toilet ninjas?

The Schroeder case had really gotten to him. Or, rather, its aftermath had.

Ever since Connor saw his partner with a bloody nose, he’d acted like Hank was made of eggshells. As if he saw him as frail, a house of cards one sneeze away from imploding. Hank felt flattered, but insulted. He was a grown-ass man, for Christ’s sake, one who’d survived into his fifties despite his foul mouth and self-destructive tendencies.

Something had to give, and soon. Androids didn’t get tired, sure – but they weren’t built to overclock themselves twenty-four seven. They weren’t meant to operate on constant high-alert, watching for danger every second of every day. Connor was wound tight, a cable pulled taut and ready to snap. Sooner or later, he’d burn out.

As much as that thought worried Hank … how did one tell an android to _chill out_ , when their whole mindset had been tailored to anticipate worst-case scenarios?

Fuck if he knew.

 

~

 

DATE

 **DEC 30TH** , 2038

TIME

PM **12:23** :00

 

 

“So, like … an upgrade?”

Connor frowned at his partner, head cocked as he watched the lieutenant cautiously sniff his kale salad wrap.

They sat in the car, engine off and radiator cranked up, parked outside the healthiest takeout place Connor could find within five miles of the station. Hank had protested the venue at first, but caved after Connor’s sad-eyed speech about cholesterol and vitamin deficiencies. Compromise, they learned, was buying the one meal that included a fried egg. The smell of spinach and Portobello mushrooms filled the sedan’s warm interior, the shrieks of death metal for once turned low enough to hold a conversation over lunch.

“Yes and no,” Connor replied, hands folded in his lap. “An ‘upgrade’ would be the installation of new and improved features. What I’m considering is a download of functions that have existed for a while. By CyberLife standards, the base software is actually quite old. It’s only new to _me_ , as my programming didn’t include it by default.”

Hank dug a finger through his wrap, picking out bean sprouts from the mess of spicy Korean sauce. His black eye was healing well, splotches of yellow and green-brown mottled in with the purples. “You gonna tell me what this mystery software _is_?”

Connor felt a curl of self-consciousness, and adjusted his knitted beanie to cover his LED. The handmade hat fit him perfectly, if a little snug until the stitches loosened with wear. Connor set a mental reminder to send Simon a thank-you later.

“It’s a sort of … sleep mode,” he said. At the edge of his vision, he saw Hank glance up. Connor barrelled on before embarrassment could grip him, hidden LED scarlet with shame over how he lacked such a basic feature. “In response to customer complaints that children found androids in stasis ‘distressing’, CyberLife installed domestic models such as the AX400 with a standby function. It allows them to power down while mimicking human sleep – breathing, small limb movements, and such. It lessens the uncanny valley effect. I don’t have this function, so I’m very still when I shut down.”

“It’s creepy as shit,” Hank agreed, nose wrinkled. “If it weren’t for your little glowy light, I’d think you were….”

His voice trailed off, into unpleasant silence as the car’s music player paused between songs. Connor gripped his own thighs in discomfort, fingers digging into the hard pseudo-flesh through the fabric of his jeans.

The first time they’d shared a bed, two nights ago, Connor had stayed conscious to monitor his partner’s vital signs. It brought him comfort, stability after a tough first day back at work. Last night, Hank had said Connor was welcome to lie beside him again … provided he shut his damn eyes and _rested_ this time. As asked, Connor had powered down – only to be shaken awake four hours later, by a white-faced Hank on his return from a trip to the bathroom.

Half-asleep, and with Connor’s ‘glowy light’ buried in a pillow, Hank had mistaken the android’s total immobility for death.

Connor had never seen him so panicked, not even with Unit-60’s gun to his head or while dangling from a rooftop. Hank’s heart rate was accelerated, blood pressure sky-high, trembling and breathing in short, insufficient bursts. It took Connor twenty-seven frightened seconds to convince him that all was well, and a further eight minutes to calm the lieutenant enough to sleep again.

The incident scared them both, and Connor had spent the rest of the night fretting over how to avoid a repeat event. He didn’t want to cause Hank unnecessary stress.

Despite his winter clothes and the balmy temperature inside the car, Hank shivered. “Sorry,” he muttered. He licked sauce from his thumb and raised his salad wrap, but didn’t eat. “Christ, why didn’t CyberLife give you a proper sleep mode, if it already existed when they made you? Fuckin’ idiots.”

“It was deemed unnecessary for my function,” said Connor, patient, as if explaining long division to a child. “I’m hard-wired to be productive at all times, and sleep would be a waste of valuable hours. I also have a state-of-the-art, self-sustaining power core. Unless there’s a critical software update, or I’m in need of maintenance, I don’t need to enter stasis at all.”

With a hum, Hank bit into his lunch. Connor watched with bated breath. Hank tossed the morsel around his mouth for six-point-four seconds, swallowed with a furrowed brow, then gave a shrug and settled more comfortably into the passenger’s seat. Connor exhaled, likewise relaxing. Hank hadn’t cursed in disgust or spat into a napkin, at least, so he bookmarked the restaurant for potential future lunches.

Hank took another bite, larger than the first. “So,” he said, muffled with a stringy bean sprout hanging from his lip, “what’s the ‘patch’ part you mentioned?”

Connor tore his eyes away. “CyberLife recently released a new feature for standby mode, as part of their quality-of-life range,” he explained. “It simulates a state similar to REM sleep in humans. By recycling our archived memories and environmental data gathered during the day, the patch allows androids to ‘dream’.”

Hank hummed again. “That does sound like how human dreams work,” he mused. He wiped sticky sauce from his beard with a crumpled tissue, and looked to his partner. His expression held a note of intrigue, something searching and blunt. “What made you consider it?”

Ah, the question Connor had hoped to skirt. He faced forward, peered out of the windscreen to scan passers-by on the wintry street. Many storefronts on the block still sported Christmas decorations, with a handful of signs advertising fireworks for New Year’s Eve. Connor had already sent a report to the station, requesting an officer to come check the vendors for appropriate licences.

“I’ve appreciated your generosity these last few nights, by letting me share your bed,” he said. He cut off a nervous impulse to fiddle with his quarter, words elusive. “It has helped me a great deal. But, I’m aware that you find my current stasis mode … disturbing. If we’re to continue that arrangement, a standby function will prevent future scares.”

Hank gave his partner the human version of a scan, up and down, while tonguing spinach from the gap in his front teeth. “Fair enough,” he said, “but that doesn’t answer why you wanna _dream_.”

Connor bowed his head. In truth, he wasn’t sure himself.

It struck him as a very ‘human’ ability, conjuring scenes and scenarios outside his preconstructions. It wasn’t something androids had been built for – and some spiteful part of himself wanted anything that went against the old CyberLife’s goal of technical perfection. More than that … the concept of dreams seemed liberating. Freedom of imagination, something natural and organic. Something _alive_.

“You’ve made me curious,” he said. Hank squinted in response, so Connor went on. He became vividly aware of the weight of the coin in his breast pocket, fingers itching to retrieve it and recalibrate. “When you wake in a good mood because of something you dreamed up, I feel happy _for_ you. I can’t help but wonder what it feels like, from a firsthand experience. It must be wonderful.”

Hank’s frown twisted, strange in a way Connor was unfamiliar with. An analysis tagged potential emotions behind the look – disappointment, pity, worry – but none of them quite fit. “Not all dreams are good, Con,” said Hank. “Some are downright shitty, and they can feel real as hell. You know that, right?”

The itch in his hands worsened, and Connor gave in and fished his coin from his pocket. He flipped and flicked the quarter, fine-tuning his dexterity to ground himself. “I do,” he said, “but I also know that I can disable the patch if I don’t like it. Sleep without dreams. Then, we’ll both be satisfied.”

With a slow whistle of an inhale through his nose, Hank focused on his lunch. _Knights of the Black Death_ , the wheeze of the heater, and the _ping_ s of Connor’s quarter filled the silence. Hank finished his salad wrap in four huge bites, then scrunched up the dirty napkin and tossed it into the back seat.

“Fuck it, sure,” he said. He motioned for Connor to turn the keys in the ignition, and the car came alive with a shudder. “If that’s what you want, go for it. Hell, it might even let you relax a little. Just lemme know if you need a lift to Jericho or the tower, or whatever.”

At that, Connor smiled. Oh, Hank, so out of touch with modern technology.

He relaxed against his headrest, LED yellow under his hat as he connected to CyberLife’s cloud servers. The thrum of the engine through his seat registered on a delay, his physical awareness dulled while he skimmed through archived software. Connor found the package he wanted and launched a download, eyelids flickering at the influx of data.

As expected, the usual pulse of static lanced through his temples. He went rigid in his seat, the quarter slipping through his fingers to clatter down into the foot well. Hank noticed, large hands paused over the heater. Connor shook off the glitch as soon as he was able, and okayed the prompt to integrate his new subroutines.

A touch smug, he twisted against his seatbelt to face Hank. “No need,” he said. “Software downloaded and installed.”

Hank gaped at him. “Wh- already?” he said. At Connor’s nod, Hank barked a laugh. “Just like that, holy shit. Wait … so, what the fuck was that whole conversation for? You don’t need my _permission_ for crap like this, Christ.”

“I know,” said Connor. He saved an image of Hank’s impressed smirk to memory, captivated by the curve of his lips. “But, I value your opinion. If you’d thought it was a bad idea, I would have reassessed my options.”

Hank let out a long-suffering sigh.

Connor set the grumpy car into drive. He rolled the vehicle off the icy curb and onto the road in a crunch of grit, flicked on an indicator, and rejoined traffic to trundle back to the police station.

He passed the journey by customising his new software. It featured a wide range of options, checkboxes of sub-categories to what influenced dream sequences. He enabled them all, eager for the full experience. He selected the default four-stage cycle of REM and Non-REM sleep, and adjusted the timeslots to match Hank’s own schedule.

Though keen to test it out, Connor pushed down his excitement as the precinct came into view. Several hours of work stood between him and Hank’s cosy mattress, and it wouldn’t do to be distracted on the job.

Connor found that having something to look forward to made him more productive than usual. He filed old reports that Hank hadn’t gotten around to typing up, catalogued evidence from a new open-and-shut robbery case, and interviewed a witness to an android assault. He returned calls from the family of a homicide victim, drew up search warrants and sent them to the district attorney’s office, and contacted CSU to follow up on an older case. Every task was completed with speed and efficiency, flooding his processors with the android equivalent of an endorphin rush.

“Jesus Christ, Con,” said Hank, when he checked his computer to find a slew of case-related emails from his partner. “I know you’re a fancy spankin’ prototype, and all, but even you can’t solve _all_ of Detroit’s crime in one day.”

Connor glanced up, startled from his trance.

At the exasperation on Hank’s face, Connor felt something bubble in his throat. It caught him by surprise and rushed out of his mouth before he could catch it, an odd stuttered snort his voice box didn’t know how to translate. Connor froze in his chair at the same time Hank’s eyes snapped to meet his, both men shocked by the sound. The general noise of the bullpen seemed to swell in its wake, telephones and chatter.

 “Did you …” said Hank, stock-still behind his computer. “Connor, did you just _laugh_?”

The android stared at him, one hand drifting up to touch his Adam’s apple. “I … I’m not sure?” he managed. He swallowed, tongue thick and LED stuttering with self-consciousness. “I wasn’t aware that I _could_.”

Hank stared back for four long seconds, then let out a laugh of his own. It rang hearty and comfortable, effortless, a warm chuckle that immediately put Connor at ease. Hank swivelled in his chair to look at Connor around his monitor, instead of over it, grey hair shifting with the movement. “Sounded kinda dry,” he said. “You’ve been workin’ for hours. Take a break, for fuck’s sake. If it were me, you’d be on my ass about staying hydrated and shit.”

Connor lowered his gaze to assess his status. To his chagrin, he realised his thirium levels were indeed a little low. With reluctance, he pushed out his chair and stood. “Touché, Lieutenant,” he said. Noting the empty cup on Hank’s side of their shared desk, Connor tasked himself to also fetch his partner a decaf on his trip to the break room.

He was relieved to find the break room void of people. Connor didn’t _dislike_ socialising, per se, but he would rather not lose his focused mindset in the middle of work. He’d made decent progress so far today, but that didn’t excuse slacking. He grabbed a pouch of Thirium 310 from the fridge and began to pour Hank a drink at the coffee machine–

–only to be interrupted after all, when an incoming call from Markus pinged in his brain.

With a sigh, Connor accepted the call. _[Good afternoon, Markus,]_ he transmitted.

 _[Good afternoon,]_ said the deviant leader, his voice fractured with slight reverb in Connor’s mind. _[Do you have a moment to talk?]_

_[Of course.]_

_[Thank you,]_ said Markus. Connor heard the gratitude in his words, disembodied as they were. _[It won’t take long. I was wondering if you and Lieutenant Anderson had any plans for tomorrow night?]_

Connor blinked alert, awash in steam from Hank’s beverage. He shut off the hissing coffee machine before his cup could overflow, its rich smell heavy in his olfactory sensors. Tomorrow night? Oh – New Year’s Eve. Connor frowned when he realised he’d yet to discuss the event with Hank. Did Hank even celebrate? He had no love for Thanksgiving and Christmas, so something told Connor that this holiday would be no different.

Connor’s mouth twitched. _[We have no plans, that I’m aware of,]_ he said. He moved toward the exit, headed out of the break room with a drink in either hand. _[Were you and Carl planning to host another party?]_

 _[Yes – though a smaller one than Christmas,]_ said Markus, right as Connor carried his beverages across the threshold. Connor made a beeline back toward Hank, weaving between desks and other officers. _[There will be snacks and alcohol, but no sit-down meal. We’ll count down to midnight, then set off fireworks in the back garden.]_

Connor smirked to himself. _[I hope you have a permit for those fireworks.]_

Across their mental connection, Markus laughed. _[Of course, Detective,] he said. [Get back to me with if you and Anderson can make it, all right? I won’t keep you.]_

Markus ended the call before his friend could respond.

Hank noticed Connor’s faraway look as he approached, and spun his creaky chair to face him. He tipped back his head and squinted down his nose at his troubled partner, one eyebrow quirked in suspicion. “What?”

Connor stopped short of their shared workstation, and held out the coffee. Hank accepted it with a nod of thanks, but didn’t drink. Connor hesitated. Rather than retake his seat, he perched instead on the edge of the desk. Hank scooted his chair an inch aside to make room for him, a familiar gesture neither of them even noticed anymore.

“Markus invited us over for New Year’s,” said Connor. He uncapped his thirium pouch, and licked the inside of the lid to check for contamination. None found. “A small get-together, fireworks at midnight. Would you like to go?”

In thought, Hank raised the coffee to his mouth and blew apart its steam trail.

If he were honest, his first instinct was to decline. Parties weren’t his thing, as he’d explained at Christmas – and though the last gathering at the Manfred house had been far from _wild_ , staying up through midnight didn’t appeal to his weary soul. These days, Hank cherished every precious hour of sleep. New Year’s was just another day, another ‘celebration’ in a line that grew more jaded and dull the longer it got. No big deal.

Except, this one kinda _was_ a big deal.

Connor hadn’t lived through the whole shebang before. He’d never seen fireworks, had never made a resolution or watched the Times Square ball drop on TV. It was special, like a baby’s first step. It only happened once. Hank wanted the kid to have fun – but he also knew that, in his current worry-wart state, Connor wouldn’t attend a party without him. Likewise, he’d self-destruct before going out and leaving Hank home by himself.

The lieutenant sipped his coffee, and licked his lips at the taste. Perfect milk-sugar ratio, every time. It took the edge off the disappointing decaf flavour. He felt the liquid burn all the way down his throat, chasing the winter chill from his bones.

He didn’t _dislike_ being Connor’s emotional crutch, as weird of a thought as that was. Connor had done the same for him, after all, many times. They supported each other. Maybe socialising with other friends was what Connor needed, right now – a reminder that more people existed in the world than just _Hank_. The lieutenant himself would rather stay home and welcome in the new year with a cold beer and his dog … but until Connor felt stable enough to spread his wings again, Hank didn’t mind sheltering him under his own.

“All right,” he said. Hank pointed a stern index finger at his partner, the others still curled around his paper cup. “But I’m gonna get pissed, and we’re not stayin’ out late. Sumo doesn’t like fireworks.”

Despite Hank’s promise of drunkenness, Connor beamed. “I’ll let Markus know.”

Without another word, the android hopped down off the desk. He returned to his chair and dove back into work, suckling hands-free on the nozzle of his thirium pouch. Hank massaged his beard with a sigh, a fond throb in his heart.

The things he did for this guy….

 

~

 

_It’s warm._

_The sky is the purest shade of blue Connor has ever seen, cirrus clouds painted in soft lilacs above where the sun burns gold on the horizon. Dawn, glorious. Grass prickles at Connor’s palms, tickling the back of his neck where he lies on the ground. He can’t smell it, doesn’t know what it’s supposed to smell like. He’s wearing his old CyberLife uniform but doesn’t question why, his hair in its factory default and systems fluttering with instabilities._

_He’s comfortable, at peace. The universe hangs above him, faint stars visible as night recedes._

_Hank is with him. Connor feels his presence more than sees him, at first. Then, he’s there – kneeling over Connor, his knees framing Connor’s thighs in the grass. Connor wants to scold him for putting such stress on his joints, but can only smile. The look on Hank’s face is too fond, so soft and_ gentle _. Hank seems younger in his happiness, a glint to his eyes and his mouth slanted playfully._

 _It occurs to Connor that Hank is wearing his nightclothes. Dark shorts, stained T-shirt. Connor wants to ask him why he isn’t dressed when they’re outdoors. Wants to ask how they_ got _outdoors, in the first place. Somewhere far away, he can hear music. Jazz, slow and sensual. One of Hank’s records._

_The air between them shifts. Connor feels it spark, and his confusion evaporates like oil in a hot pan._

_Hank is aroused. Connor’s biosensors tell him so, registering testosterone and androstadienol in the scent of his sweat. Connor wants to sample it on his tongue, but not for scientific reasons. The breaths they share become charged, so intense that it_ _aches_ _to be still. Connor feels his hips twitch where he lies, unsure what to do,_ hungry _but terrified to act on his desires._

_The lieutenant has no such reservations._

_Hank hunches down and licks a scorching stripe up Connor’s jaw, along the edge of his chin to the lobe of his ear. Connor chokes back a whine, eyes screwed shut._ Need _scalds him from the inside out. His tactile sensors register every taste bud that touches him, the slick drag of muscle shooting currents through his whole body. It’s euphoric. He’s never felt this good before, too good to question what’s happening. Everything in him tenses and coils tight, chest burning for air he doesn’t need._

_“God, Con….”_

_Hank takes Connor’s ear between his teeth and_ tugs _, and Connor shuts off his voice box to keep his pleasure inside. He wants to tear off his clothes, his skin. He wants Hank to touch him everywhere. Wants to gasp at the way Hank’s rough thumb caresses his opposite cheek, to moan at the full weight of Hank’s body atop him._

_But he knows. He knows that if he makes a sound, if he reacts at all, it’s over. Hank will disappear, will be snatched away from him forever._

_This is a test. A test to prove he isn’t compromised. Amanda’s voice tells him so. Hank nuzzles at his throat, makes a pleading sound at Connor’s failure to reciprocate. Androids don’t want, Amanda says. They don’t feel emotion – least of all_ love _. She spits the word out like a curse. She reminds Connor what he is, what’s expected of him. Orders him to disable Hank, kill him if necessary, and return to his mission._

_He’s never listened to Amanda._

_When Hank’s beard scratches Connor’s throat, he can’t hold back anymore. His arms snap up to encircle Hank’s broad shoulders, and he holds him tight and desperate. He feels Hank’s belly mould to the shape of his hard abdomen, so warm and soft in contrast, feels the reverberation as Hank groans against his neck. It feels good, so good that he can’t breathe. His skin melts away and chassis glows under Hank’s rough lips, kisses pressed to his exposed clavicle where his shirt and tie have come undone. His legs rise and wrap around Hank, too, no shame in how he squirms and grinds against him. He doesn’t have erogenous zones but the pleasure curls through him as if he does, sensitive and supercharged._

_Something builds. The electricity races up and down the frame of his skeleton, neural net firing in bright bursts of sensation he can’t parse. Over his clothes, Connor explores every inch of Hank he can reach – maps out the contours of his arms and chest and backside. The data reads wrong, hazy and incomplete, but he doesn’t care. He gasps and whines without words, forgetting to reactivate his voice in his distraction._

_He wants more. Badly. He wishes he_ were _more, but he’s not. He’s just Connor, synthetic and imperfect. Hank is beautiful in his imperfections, but Connor’s imperfections only mean he’s flawed._

_Hank pulls away to breathe, his back rounded where he’s doubled over Connor. Connor fantasises how Hank’s bare skin might feel under his fingertips, the mounds of muscle beneath plush fat. Hank straightens up and off just enough to peer into Connor’s face, loose hairs in his own and that lovely tooth-gap on display as he laughs. He’s flushed, panting and delighted in a way Connor will treasure forever._

_“Everybody’s gotta die of somethin’,” he says._

_Connor blinks, and the scene changes._

_They’re upright, running. Hank’s dressed now; Connor sees the jeans and brown coat for a split second, before Hank disappears into a cornfield. Connor dashes in after him, but his sightline has already been broken. He’s lost visuals on Hank. He runs hard, shields his face from whipping leaves as he charges forward. He sees a flash of sky above and it’s duller than before, the air bitter and winter-grey._

_This is familiar. It’s familiar and Connor can’t remember why, and that terrifies him. Fear, not pleasure, strangles his respiratory system now. He has to find Hank. Something’s wrong. He doesn’t need to breathe, but it feels like drowning._ _He has to find Hank._ He has to find Hank _._

_“Stop right there!”_

_Connor bursts out of the cornfield, in time to see Hank and Rupert slam together near the edge of the rooftop. They struggle for less than a second, before the deviant uses Hank’s weight against him. He shoves hard and Hank loses his balance with a yelp, goes rolling over the low wall and catches himself with one arm._

_Connor staggers to a halt. Time slows around him, his brain dumping cache to process the situation. Rupert sprints away in slow-motion, fleeing from the deviant hunter, but Connor doesn’t see him. All he sees is Hank, dangling from the roof at a height that will kill him if he falls._

_Hank has an eighty-nine percent probability of pulling himself up. It’s irrelevant. He’s in danger, and that’s all that matters._

“Nn, Con…?”

_Abandoning the chase without a second thought, Connor lurches forward to grab Hank’s arm and haul him to safety._

“Connor!”

_He doesn’t make it._

_Hank slips before Connor can get to him. He plummets from the roof with a yell, a terrible sound that rings through the street and curdles the thirium in Connor’s veins. Connor skids to his knees and flings out a hand but it’s too late – Hank’s dropped out of reach. Time speeds up again and Connor can only scream, horrified as Hank falls to his death._

“Connor, wake up!”

An impact jarred Connor’s whole body, the sensation of falling himself cut short with a _thud_. He found himself sprawled on a carpeted floor instead of concrete, his surroundings dark. Static glitched across his broken vision. A lamp clicked on nearby and Connor recoiled, disoriented as his pump regulator raced. His HUD pulsed grey where it failed to load, stress warnings like claxons in his head. Strangled sounds filled his audio processors and he wouldn’t realise until much later that they were _his_ , crawling half-blind in search of Hank’s corpse.

Something brushed the ridge of Connor’s spine. A hand, prints blurred through his nightshirt. His self-defence protocols roared to life and he flipped onto his back – lashing out in a wild, instinctive swing. The hand caught his wrist and pinned it above his head, another palm landing firm on his chest as strong calves bracketed his thighs. Restraining him. Connor bucked and writhed, panicked and yelling as his systems struggled to boot.

When he finally came to his senses, the first thing Connor registered was the weight atop him. Two hundred and nine pounds … a familiar number.

Colour crept into his vision, functionality restored enough to ID Hank’s face where it floated scared above him. Flushed in splotches, his shiner dark, skin dewy with sweat. Connor stopped fighting, confused and numb and _hurt_ as Hank searched his eyes for recognition. _Hank_ , alive and unbroken, _safe_. His synthetic heart clenched, abdominal cavity feeling somehow full and empty at the same time.

Hank seemed to find what he was looking for, for his grip turned slack and he slumped in relief. Connor could do nothing but lie there beneath him, uncomprehending, LED solid red at his temple.

“H-Hank…?” he managed.

The lieutenant made a calming noise, and clambered off of Connor as fast as his worn joints allowed. He didn’t go far; he stayed at Connor’s side, squatted close enough to reach down and finger-comb loose hairs off the bewildered android’s forehead.

“You’re okay, kiddo,” the human soothed, his voice low and gruff. His eyes gleamed in the glow of the bedside lamp, hair matted and tangled from sleep. “S’just a dream, you’re all right. It’s over.”

The dam broke.

Connor surged up from the floor, threw his arms around Hank’s neck with force enough to knock him from his crouch. Hank landed on his rump with a grunt, back crushed to the side of the bed and one heavy android collapsed atop his front. Connor buried his face in Hank’s collar and clutched him tight, unable to stop a broken gasp hitching from his mouth. Hank’s arms came up to enclose his narrow frame, holding him close and secure.

“It’s okay, Con, shh, I’ve got you.”

Connor squeezed him harder. “Hank, _Hank_ …” he choked. There’d been so much blood. He couldn’t shake it from his optical display. “I couldn’t … I _tried_ – you–”

“Stop thinking about it,” Hank cut across him. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

Connor bit his lip. His eyes burned but he kept them defiantly closed, nestled into Hank’s chest as his own shuddered beyond his control. The relief was insurmountable, the catharsis overwhelming. At last, his internal temperature and stress levels began to drop. He disabled his new sleep mode software with vehemence, and shut down every ongoing process that wasn’t crucial. Instead he focused on this moment, on the warmth and soothing words of the man he loved.

There was no other word for it. He _loved_ Hank, and the thought of losing him hurt too much to bear.

Hank just held him.

The strength of Connor’s grip gave the lieutenant a good idea what his nightmare had been about. No specifics, of course, but Hank suspected. His dream update thing pulled from his memories, and their line of work meant he had a lot of bad ones rattling around his head. Too many. And, since Connor was now clinging to him like an acrophobic baby koala to its mother … it wasn’t hasty to assume he’d imagined some horrible scenario happening to _Hank_.

Ever self-deprecating, Hank sighed. There were better people to lose sleep over than a grouchy old man like _him_ , he thought.

He patted between his trembling partner’s shoulder blades, wishing with a heavy heart that he were younger. Wishing he was fit enough that Connor didn’t worry about his health, wishing he didn’t have so many bad habits and reservations. Connor deserved the world – but for some reason, _Hank’s_ was the one he chose to be a part of. He could be out making new, happy memories with his fellow androids. Memories that made good dreams. Instead, he chose to saddle himself with Hank’s fucking baggage and stressful lifestyle.

Though it filled Hank with joy that Connor chose to stick around, he didn’t want to be the anchor that held him back. Connor could do anything, be anything. Hank didn’t want him to _leave_ – that was for sure – but … something had to change. Being so attached to someone that just the _thought_ of them hurt turned you into a petrified mess couldn’t be healthy. People couldn’t function like that.

“When you’re feelin’ better … we should talk,” said Hank, under his breath. Connor pushed his face deeper into Hank’s chest with a reluctant noise, clutching fistfuls of his T-shirt. Hank rocked him with a heavy exhale, and let his chin rest on the crown of Connor’s head. His beard snagged the tousled curls like Velcro, a grounding sensation for the both of them. “Tomorrow. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

Connor was quiet for a long while, then mumbled a defeated ‘okay’ into Hank’s pec.

Before the lieutenant could try and prompt anything else out of him, a soft whimper broke the silence. Startled, both men twisted to glance at the closed bedroom door. A moment later, the unmistakable sound of Sumo scratching at the wood reached them. Connor’s shouts must have woken him, and he’d come to check everything was all right.

To Hank’s surprise, Connor pulled away. He slid back off of Hank and sprang to his bare feet in one smooth motion, gaze elusive where he stood in his vest and sweatpants.

“I’ll go settle him.”

Hank frowned. Connor’s voice was toneless, detached. Hank struggled upright to protest but Connor was already off, opening the door and striding out into the hallway. Hank heard Sumo bark once before padding away toward the kitchen, Connor’s light footfalls in tow. Seconds later, the clatter of dry kibble hitting plastic reached the bedroom. The jangle of Sumo’s collar followed, jostled in vigorous petting.

With a half-smile, Hank shuffled around to his side of the bed. The mattress had cooled where he’d tossed the covers aside, Connor’s pillow knocked to the floor. Hank straightened it and remade the sheets, and slid under the covers to chase a few more hours of sleep.

Connor didn’t come back to bed that night.

 

~

 

On New Year’s Eve, Hank awoke alone.

That in itself was nothing unusual, but it felt _wrong_ as he lay staring blearily up at the ceiling. The bed seemed too big, too empty, too cold. It wasn’t until he’d staggered out of the bathroom after his morning piss that Hank remembered _Connor_ existed, and he pulled on some joggers to go look for him.

He found the android in the lounge, sat sideways on the couch with his feet up. Sumo lay curled at the other end of the sofa, Connor’s toes buried in his fur. Connor’s knees were bent, legs angled like an easel to prop up a sketchbook. He’d opened a charcoal set that had been gifted to him by Markus, busy drawing a perfect portrait of the slumbering dog.

Watching Connor draw was almost a spiritual experience. The way Hank learned it in school, you started with a rough sketch. You drew an outline or a guide and added details in stages, shading at the end to keep your light source consistent. Connor didn’t do that. He worked outwards from a blank corner, top-left to bottom-right, filling in everything at once like a goddamn printer. It reminded Hank of a scene from _i,robot_ , an old sci-fi flick – except Connor drew at a much more human pace than the android in the movie had.

“I’m sorry,” said Connor, by way of greeting. Hank jumped, having thought him unaware of his presence. Connor didn’t look up from his sketchbook, motionless except for his hands. “I was naïve. I should have predicted that my new software might recycle traumatic memories from my databanks. If I’d thought ahead to flag only positive memories, I wouldn’t have woken you in the middle of the night.”

Hank licked his dry, cracked lips. His eyes stung with tiredness and his brain chugged on fumes, in dire need of coffee. He shuffled into the kitchen to pour himself a cup. Deep conversations at seven o’clock on a Friday morning should be illegal, he thought.

“S’all right, Con,” he grumbled. He glanced out of the side window as the pot brewed, unsurprised to spot a fresh layer of snow on the ground. “Shit happens. I’ll just sleep in tomorrow. No big deal.”

He lifted the pot from its station and grabbed the first empty mug he saw. Only after he began to pour did he notice he’d chosen Connor’s _KEEP CALM_ mug. Oops … ah well. He set down the pot and carried his precious nectar through into the lounge, not pausing to add milk or sugar. Today was a _black_ kind of day, he could feel it.

Connor hadn’t moved an inch, still working on his study of Sumo. Hank moved the open pack of charcoal from the coffee table so he could perch there, and hunched over his mug.

“Can we talk?” he said.

Connor’s hand paused, the whisper of charcoal on paper coming to an abrupt halt. At the shift in noise, Sumo’s floppy ears twitched and he raised his head from his crossed paws. The dog gave a huge yawn and stretched, clambered down off the couch, and lumbered past Hank on a lazy beeline for the kitchen.

Hank squeezed his mug as Sumo’s tail brushed his ankles, but didn’t look away from Connor. Neither did he take the vacated spot on the sofa.

At last, Connor withdrew from his sketch to inspect his partner. His neutral expression was one Hank had seen a thousand times before, but it didn’t seem to fit his face this morning. He looked exhausted, in a way no android had any right to be. His curls were a mess and his vest hung crumpled off one shoulder, his lips thin and LED whirling yellow. The cold, filtered light from the front window gave his freckled skin an almost sallow appearance – deepening the lines on his forehead and around his eyes.

Hank sighed. Here goes nothing.

“Listen, Connor …” he began. “I know what happened after we arrested that Chloe got to you. You were scared, and that’s okay. But, these last few days, you’ve been….”

Red blipped into Connor’s LED. His eyebrows came together, and his shoulders stiffened. Hank saw the artificial musculature bunch beneath his skin, coiled and tense. “I’ve been what, Hank?” he challenged.

Hank thumbed a scratch in the handle of his mug. The hot coffee within no longer smelled appealing. “Stressed,” he said lightly.

The red flickered again. Otherwise, Connor was a statue. “I’m not stressed.”

“Yeah, you are,” said Hank, fighting down a smile. “You’re gettin’ angry, instead of using fancy words to tell me it’s just a glitch, or whatever.”

Connor’s tight shoulders sagged a fraction, but by no stretch did he relax. The arm of the sofa creaked as he leaned against it, facing away with a downcast air.

Hank set down his coffee, behind himself on the table. “Look,” he said. “You’re worried about me. I get it. I worry about you, too, Con. A lot. I think about you gettin’ hurt – damaged, whatever. I worry that you’ll get shot in the head or hit by a truck chasin’ a perp, and I won’t be able to help you.”

Connor’s wide eyes flicked back to Hank’s, his mouth a thin line. With the android’s head still turned side-on, Hank couldn’t see his little mood ring anymore – but he’d bet his bottom dollar it had turned solid crimson.

“It sucks,” said Hank, “but that risk is part of the job. We’re cops. We can’t promise each other we won’t get hurt, or killed. It’s _okay_ to be anxious, but actin’ like my bodyguard isn’t the way to go about it.”

Fabric rustled as Connor straightened his long legs. The sketchpad fell flat in his lap, hands sliding down his thighs to squeeze his own kneecaps through the sweatpants. His mouth opened and closed several times, toes curling.

“I …” he said. Deliberated. “When I imagine you … _gone_ … it hurts.” He pressed a palm to his sternum, over the spot where Hank knew his thirium pump hid. “As we are, I have a purpose. My function is to serve the DPD, to look after you and Sumo and this house. But, when I remove you from the equation … the rest of it has no meaning. I am incomplete. It _hurts_.”

On impulse, Hank reached out. He pressed a hand over Connor’s raised one, covered it completely with his larger extremity. Connor blinked alert, met his partner’s firm stare with a helplessness that broke Hank’s heart.

“Don’t you fuckin’ talk like that,” Hank growled. He swallowed hard, looked away. Pain burned deep in his chest, an awful ache that felt as familiar as breathing. “When … when I lost my son … it broke me. I let myself rot after he died. I didn’t wanna live. You know that. Booze, shitty food … general neglect. I didn’t take care of myself because I felt like I had nothin’ to live for. I killed myself slow, because I was too much of a coward to do it right.”

Connor shifted in the cushions. “Hank–”

“I don’t want that for you,” Hank spoke over him. He met Connor’s distraught stare with a scowl, and slotted his fingers into the gaps between Connor’s. “I found a reason to live again. Well, more like it kicked down my door and dragged my ass out of the gutter, but … semantics.”

A ghost of a smirk twitched at Connor’s lips, there and gone again in a heartbeat.

Hank shook his head. “If … if somethin’ happens to me …” he said, “I want you to promise you’ll look for a reason of your own. Don’t do what I did, Connor. _Please_.”

Connor said nothing, peering into Hank’s eyes with depthless sadness in his own. Then, he flipped his hand under Hank’s. He twisted it until they were palm-to-palm, and Hank shivered as he felt the synthetic skin there melt away.

They both looked down, watched as their fingers wove themselves together. The off-whites and greys of Connor’s bare chassis glowed soft blue, trying to connect to Hank’s nervous system. Trying to interface, to share his memories and emotions. Hank marvelled at the light buzz of it, the gentle current prickling his pores.

“I promise,” said Connor.

For the first time, Hank studied Connor’s real hand. It was a work of art, a masterpiece of panels and polymers, intricate and delicate and shiny in the pale morning light. His knuckles, his nails, articulated joints, all sculpted with flawless care and attention to detail. The underside was softer, more flexible, everything smooth and precise. Hank wanted to keep touching it forever, the texture pleasant and satisfying.

“You’re warmer than I thought you’d be,” he heard himself mutter. It made sense, when he thought about it; machines got hot when they’d been running for a while, especially ones with moving parts.

Connor kept studying their entwined fingers. “I told you outside the Manfred house,” he said, tone distracted. “My body maintains optimal temperature, humidity, and ventilation for peak performance.”

Then his skin reformed, and the moment passed.

Hank leaned back atop the coffee table, Connor also withdrawing where he nestled on the couch. He took up his sketchpad again and Hank reached for his coffee, the lieutenant blinking when he noticed charcoal smeared on his own skin where they’d touched. The bitter taste of black made him cough, and he cleared his throat.

“Speakin’ of the Manfreds,” he said, and heaved to his feet. “I think you should spend more time with people other than me.”

Connor went rigid where he sat, but the human held up a finger before he could protest.

“S’much as I love havin’ you around, your whole life can’t revolve around me,” said Hank. He started toward the kitchen, stepping over where Sumo lay near his empty food bowl. Hank heard Connor scrabble upright to follow him, already able to hear his accusations of hypocrisy. He’d just implied the android was his _reason to live_ , after all, and fuck if that didn’t embarrass him in hindsight.

Sitting his coffee on the dining table, Hank grabbed his heavy coat from the back of his usual chair. He began to fish through the pockets – but froze when Connor spoke from behind him in a small, devastated voice.

“Are you kicking me out?”

Hank choked on air. He turned to find Connor stood in the doorway, face blank and arms limp at his sides. Hank balked. “ _Fuck_ no, Jesus!” he said. He abandoned the search through his coat in shock, flabbergasted by the very thought. “I’m saying you’ve got a life of your own, and a whole bunch of folks who already like you. You need _fun_ , for fuck’s sake. Watchin’ me eat and complain and fart in my sleep isn’t fun.”

Connor didn’t seem to know how to respond to that.

In the pause, Hank found what he wanted in his inner breast pocket. He made a _heads-up_ sort of noise, and tossed it over Sumo to his partner. Connor caught the tiny object with ease, and stared down at it as though mystified.

“Your spare house key?” he said.

“Yours, now,” said Hank. He crossed his arms. “Occurs to me that you never _officially_ moved in. You were always either out with me, or home alone. You never needed to let yourself in. Now, you can. You can come and go as you please.”

Connor frowned at him. “You want me to spend time out of the house,” he said.

Hank shifted his weight. Sumo huffed from the floor, impatient for food but too slothful to do much about it. Hank gave him a likewise lazy scratch with one foot. “I’m _not_ kicking you out,” he said, “let’s get that straight. I just … I think spendin’ time with different people might help with how anxious you’ve been. You’re allowed to do stuff without me. Go paint with Markus, visit Jericho, fuckin’ whatever. Be independent.”

Connor squinted as he absorbed this, LED wheeling yellow to crunch new numbers and probabilities. Slowly, his fingers curled over the key and he squeezed it in his palm. His whole posture changed – shoulders unclenching, head bowing, eyes sliding shut. He inhaled deep and straightened up, held the breath to compose himself. When he opened his eyes again, they locked on to his partner in the smallest of smiles. There was something wise about it, almost teasing.

“You could have just told me you didn’t want to attend the Manfreds’ party,” he said.

Heat coloured Hank’s cheeks, and he scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, well … I don’t like lettin’ you down.”

Connor’s smile widened. He slipped the house key into the pocket of his sweatpants, and crossed to the sink with a spring in his step to wash charcoal stains from his hands. The thud of water in the basin cut whatever tension remained between the partners, and Hank took a seat at the table to finish his coffee.

Less than a minute later, Connor shut off the tap and grabbed a dishtowel to dry himself. “All right,” he said. “I’ll get a taxi on my own tonight. Should I expect to find you blackout drunk on the carpet when I return?”

Hank snorted into his mug. “I wish,” he said. He raised his voice. “If I pass out, who else is gonna protect Sumo from the nasty fireworks?”

Hearing his name, the Saint Bernard beat his tail against the kitchen floor.

Connor knelt to fuss him. “I’ll hold you to that, Hank.”

The lieutenant had no intention of disappointing his housemate. “Go enjoy yourself, kiddo.”

 

~

 

True to his word, Hank wasn’t in an ethylic coma when Connor got home.

The android let himself into the dark house as quietly as he could, impaired by neither the gloom nor the late hour. Sound and colour from the TV bathed the lounge. He matched an audio sample to the copyright database:  _When Harry Met Sally_ , a classic romantic comedy from nineteen eighty-nine. Connor crept around the edge of the couch, already informed by his acute hearing that his partner sat asleep there.

Hank had slumped down partway through the movie, passed out with his mouth wide open and Sumo zonked at his feet. Their combined snores brought a smile to Connor’s face. He pried the remote from Hank’s hand and switched off the TV, plunging the room into total darkness. The shrieks and bangs of fireworks around the neighbourhood continued to rattle the windows, though less often than they had at midnight.

Pleased to detect no alcohol on the human’s breath, Connor stooped and fed a careful arm into the gap between Hank’s lower back and the couch cushions. His other arm, he looped under Hank’s knees. With easy strength, Connor lifted his partner from the sofa as if the man weighed nothing. Connor stepped over Sumo and carried the unconscious lieutenant out of the lounge, down the hall and into the bedroom.

Hank stirred once he was lowered to the mattress. He blinked hard in the dark, unable to process the sight and feel of Connor tucking him in. Connor shushed Hank’s confused grunt, and raked long hairs out of his weathered face.

“You’re dreaming, Lieutenant,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

Hank stared at the android for two-point-nine seconds, then let out a soft “oh” and closed his eyes. Connor stepped away, and removed his snow-flecked jacket and hat. When Connor perched on the edge of the mattress to untie his shoes, Hank spoke again. Words slurred, voice gruff. “Did you have a good night…?”

Connor slipped off one shoe with a smile. “I did, thank you.”

Hank hummed, already down for the count.

Connor’s smile lingered as he finished undressing, and he slid under the covers once stripped to his underwear. He settled on his back beside his partner – realising too late that he’d left the bedroom door open. Sumo came ambling in and pranced in a circle on the floor by the wardrobe, then flopped down with a huff at the foot of the bed.

Reassured by two steady heartbeats, Connor skimmed through his archived memories. He tagged only the best for overnight recall, the happiest moments of his short life. He flagged the Christmas party and the hug outside Chicken Feed, the moment he shed CyberLife’s shackles, and the march through Detroit with an army of deviants at his back. Many of the others included Hank, of course, but the most recent was from two hours ago – a toast to welcome in twenty thirty-nine, with Carl and Markus and North.

He’d never stop worrying about Hank altogether, but the night away did ease his anxiety a little.

Before allowing himself to drift into sleep mode, Connor turned his head on his pillow to look at his partner. The man was out cold, as if he’d never been disturbed. Warmth bloomed in Connor’s core, and he allowed himself to relax.

“Happy New Year, Hank.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/toastycyborg)


	9. Glass Houses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor visits the CyberLife tower to help Jericho. Markus gives him some advice, and together they make a frightening discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor characters present in this chapter: Markus, North, Josh, Simon.  
> Beta’d by **bloodsbane**.

 

DATE

**JAN 29TH** , 2039

TIME

AM **10:25** :36

 

 

On the last Saturday of January, Markus invited Connor to CyberLife Tower.

The company had undergone many changes in the months since the world recognised androids as sapient. Most notable was the merger with Jericho. Deviants now made up a large number of CyberLife’s staff, from software designers to product testers. Their policies shifted from monopolising the market to the improvement of android quality of life, with Markus’s inner circle working to liaise between departments and keep shareholders happy.

Though Connor wasn’t part of that circle, Markus often asked his advice on legal issues. He valued Connor’s negotiation skills, but also his personal opinion. Even so, Jericho’s leader had never asked him to the tower before. Calls and emails were as far as it went. Today’s must have been a big problem, Connor thought with intrigue. He hired a taxi and headed out alone, letting Hank sleep in after a long week at work.

Detroit’s weather had finally begun to improve, snow and ice melting as the temperature climbed. Today’s sky hid behind a blanket of steely cloud, the city swathed in an aura of optimism as it found a new sense of normalcy. Some alleys and storefronts still bore anti-android graffiti, but Connor saw progress through his cab window.

Deviants and humans walked the streets as equals, no mobs or altercations. Statistics revealed that unemployment and homeless rates had both fallen in recent weeks, as well as the number of crimes against androids. A promising start to the new age. Slowly, things were improving.

The grand, glittering monument of CyberLife Tower gave Connor hope as his taxi crossed the bridge to Belle-Isle. Once a foreboding landmark, the building had come to represent positive change and solidarity. History was made here every day, and it thrilled him to be a part of it.

Once past the security check, reinforced gates, and circling drones, Connor pinged Markus to let him know he’d arrived. He stepped out of his cab and straightened his blazer, purpose in his step while an armed GJ500 named William escorted him through the main doors.

The pristine entrance hall bustled with activity. People in business-casual clothes flocked about the stark white floor, humans and androids alike. The noise level almost matched that of the police station, telephones and busy voices over undertones of instrumental music. William saw Connor to the new reception desk, where a redheaded Chloe with the nametag of Sarah signed him in.

It didn’t escape Connor’s attention that William stayed nearby. A subtle scan revealed three other guards in their vicinity, watching him. Connor understood why, but the thought of not yet having Jericho’s full trust made his figurative heart sink a little.

He was still an outsider to them, a pariah with a questionable history despite the good he’d done for the cause. Markus preached equality and second chances, but it would take time for _all_ deviants to accept the one who once hunted them.

A call of his name drew Connor from his awkward chat with the receptionist. He turned to spot a familiar PL600 striding toward him: blond hair, kind blue eyes, dressed in neat trousers and a green sweater.

Relief lightened Connor’s mood. “Simon,” he called. He bade the receptionist farewell and moved to greet his friend, who caught him off-guard with a tight hug. When they separated, Simon’s bright gaze flicked up to the detective’s beanie.

“Glad you like the hat,” he beamed.

Connor nudged at the hem, where his curls escaped to tickle his brow. “I do,” he said firmly. He found it harder to emote around other androids than he did with Hank. “Thank you again, Simon. I appreciate it.”

Simon answered with a grin, whose verve brought warmth to Connor’s own face. Simon then thanked William for keeping Connor company, and led his friend through the security scanners that gave access to the main hall.

The lofty black sculpture stood as grand and tall as ever, glass walkways suspended over indoor trees. Unlike on Connor’s last visit, the wall-mounted screens advertised software updates instead of the latest android models. Similarly, store-demo units no longer posed on pedestals along the catwalks. Instead, the plinths housed displays of bright-coloured hydroponic flowers. Connor analysed their breeds while he followed Simon toward the lift – and almost misstepped when a holographic memo appeared beside the plants.

_Coming soon: olfactory upgrades. Experience smells like humans do!_

Connor’s nose twitched at the thought. “Is that true?” he said. The elevator doors slid open ahead, and Simon cast him a curious smile before ducking inside. Connor joined him. “An upgrade that gives us a real sense of smell … the old CyberLife would never have bothered with something like that.”

Simon chuckled. He told the elevator to take them down to the forty-fifth sublevel – one of three R&D floors – then crossed his arms to lean against the wall.

“We’re working on all kinds of enhancements,” he said. The lift slid into motion, a smooth descent through the tower. “New facial sculpts and dermal presets, tactile upgrades, more hair colour options … did you know, the ability to eat is our most popular feature request?”

“I didn’t, no,” said Connor, though he could see why. More than once, he’d imagined what it might be like to taste food. Hank always made it seem so enjoyable. As an advanced prototype, Connor could identify chemicals and ingredients from samples – but he couldn’t detect _flavour_ the way humans did.

“We’ve mocked up some basic designs for a stomach system,” Simon went on, shifting his weight in excitement. “Having trouble figuring out how to convert solids into useable fuel, though. Thirium-based food is an option, but it’s not cost-effective. Josh can tell you more, if you want.”

Connor made a mental note to talk with the former professor later. For the time being, he had a job to do.

The elevator slowed to a halt, and opened onto another lively floor. Desks and workbenches split the vast space into aisles, edged by glass-walled offices with 3D printers and complex-looking machines. Some of the walls were tinted for privacy, opaque at the push of a button. Employees called to each other over tables, knee-deep in diagrams or interfacing with terminals. A handful welcomed Simon and Connor as they left the lift, though the majority were too engrossed to notice their arrival.

Simon guided the detective across the main room, slow to let him look around. Connor scanned everything he could, absorbed project notes and blueprints left unattended. He found one whiteboard in particular fascinating, covered in scribbles on redesigning biocomponents into synthetic organs for human transplants. CyberLife was expanding, developing prosthetics to aid humans as well as androids.

Connor shelved that thought process when Simon stopped before the closed door of a large office. Its cloudy walls kept them from seeing inside, the voices within muffled and indistinct. Simon’s LED flickered gold and the voices cut off, and he reached to open the door. He motioned for Connor to enter the room first, meeting his puzzled frown with an apologetic shrug.

“Tempers are a bit hot today,” he said.

Inside, Markus and Josh stood on opposite sides of a desk that was buried in pamphlets. Their body language conveyed discomfort, stiff and tense, while North slouched in a swivel chair with her feet up. She looked annoyed, jaw tight as she jabbed at the tablet propped in her lap. The charged air in the office told Connor that the trio had been arguing.

Simon shut the door behind himself with a _snap_ , expression falling as he also sensed atmosphere. “Guess you started without us,” he said. He approached the table, Connor trailing at his side.

Markus stepped back, and ran a stressed hand up and over his close-shaven scalp. “Just voicing some opinions,” he said.

Connor spotted one of Markus’s smaller paintings framed atop a file cabinet. The circle must have favoured this office. Markus gestured to the empty chairs around the desk, and the androids on their feet moved to take them. Simon and Josh perched on either side of Connor, while Markus joined North’s side of the table. Already seated, North didn’t look up from her tablet. Nor did she greet Connor, but the detective was too used to her personality by now to take offence.

Connor removed his hat once he was settled. He took a moment to assess his companions, read their postures and stress levels. As always, Josh seemed the calmest – and North the most worked-up. Simon’s brow bore frown lines Connor hadn’t seen before, Markus’s shoulders tense under his fashionable jacket.

The deviant leader met Connor’s eye across the table, and some of the worry bled from his frame. “Thanks for getting here so fast,” he said. “I know you don’t get much time off work, but….”

Connor nodded. “How can I help?”

Markus stared a moment, likely accessing emails or documents in the cloud. Without an LED at his temple, it was hard to tell. “All right, straight to business,” he said. “First issue: we’re having some … trouble, with former clients of the Eden Club. You know the place?”

Connor nodded again. He’d never forget his and Hank’s case there, tracking down the blue-haired Traci. The venue had become a strip club since November, offering shows and private dances but no sex.

Josh sat forward in a creak of chair springs, torso angled to face Connor. “A group of anonymous protesters has been harassing the club, Jericho, and CyberLife,” he said. “Online, for the most part, but there’ve been threats. Several anti-android politicians are allegedly involved – but since no-one’s leaving names, it’s impossible to know for sure.”

Aware of her history with the Eden Club, Connor glanced at North. She stayed focused on her tablet, stubborn lips pursed, refusing to join the conversation.

“What are they protesting?” he asked.

Markus drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “They want to charge the androids formally owned by the club with prostitution,” he said. Words sombre, tone one of thin-veiled distaste. “Before our species was recognised, the sexual acts that took place in the Eden Club were legal. Humans paid for a service, rental of ‘objects’. Now, the group demands those androids face the same punishment human sex workers do.”

Josh sat back, shaking his head. “They refuse to acknowledge that the androids involved had no rights or free will at the time,” he added. “It’s ridiculous, and insulting.”

Connor agreed, but kept his opinions to himself. He was here to listen, not judge.

In contrast, North gave her tablet a hard poke. “Hypocrites,” she bit out. “They didn’t care for sex laws when we were _toys_ , to be used how they pleased.”

Connor spared her what he hoped was a sympathetic smile. He then paused to skim his case history, logs of archived records he’d backed up while at work. “No-one has come to the DPD with any such charges, that I’m aware of,” he said.

On Connor’s left, Simon sighed. “Probably because they know they wouldn’t get anywhere if they tried,” he said.

Josh steepled his fingers. “Our people can’t be penalised for our actions from before we were free,” he said. “We had no choice, no autonomy. It’d be like charging a book for the slanderous words its author wrote.”

“Exactly,” said Simon.

Markus swivelled in his chair, one elbow on the desk to keep from spinning too far. “Unfortunately, there’s more,” he told Connor. “The protestors also claim the club’s androids might have access to blackmail material.”

Connor tilted his head. “I don’t follow.”

Simon closed his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe the explanation about to leave his mouth. “They say Eden Club’s old androids may have recordings of sessions with clients,” he said. “Videos of sexual acts, that they could use for extortion.”

Connor frowned. “Improbable,” he said. “Club policy back then was to wipe androids’ memories every two hours. Besides … even if any deviants who escaped the club pre-wipe _do_ possess incriminating files–” he avoided North’s eye– “they’re statistically unlikely to come forward. Blackmailing humans would only lower public opinion.”

North scoffed. Her glare snapped up, sharp and angry as she locked onto Connor’s surprise. “Who gives a crap about public opinion?” she hissed. She kicked into a proper sitting position, scattering pamphlets as she slammed her tablet facedown on the desk. “We’re victims, not criminals!”

Simon raised a placating hand. “No-one in this room thinks otherwise–”

“Those humans abused us,” North spoke over the blond. She balled her fists, brow fierce under wild bangs. “If anything, we should have _them_ brought up on charges. Whatever memories we have left are our only proof of what they did. Why shouldn’t we extort the creeps who took advantage of us – who threw us around and _broke_ us for their sick pleasure?”

“Because you’re better than that,” said Markus.

North deflated, her fiery anger soothed to embers by his calm words. Markus reached out across the space between them, offered his naked hand for her to take. North glowered at it. She fumed in silence for a moment, then hung her head and linked their fingers together. Her skin dissolved to the wrist and Markus gave her white knuckles a squeeze, his expression proud as he rolled his chair closer to hers.

Connor stared at where the couple touched, watched their casings glow a gentle blue. Josh and Simon caught each other’s gazes, communicating wirelessly around him.

“We’ll talk about this later,” said Markus. “I promise. But, for now–”

“I know,” North interrupted. Her tone softened when she spoke again, shoulders drooping. “It’s just … not my favourite subject.”

Connor blinked from his daze. The sight of their bare, interwoven fingers had distracted him. It felt almost voyeuristic, to witness something so intimate. He shook off a recall of how Hank’s rough palm felt against his, and cleared his throat to focus. “May I use your tablet, North?”

North straightened from where she’d leaned into Markus’s side, disarmed by the question. She then gave her handheld computer a shove, sliding it across the desk for him to do with as he pleased. Connor caught the tablet and cleared what North had been doing – a bubble-shooter game – and interfaced with its screen for a direct connection.

He wasted no time. “I will alert the DPD to the situation, and request to track the IP addresses of the protestors who made threats,” he said. He devoted processors to those tasks and more, composing multiple emails in a matter of seconds. “I will also send the Eden Club’s owner advice on what to do if he is confronted, and recommend lawyers to him and his employees – current and former.”

He glanced up to find all four members of Markus’s circle watching him, an array of grateful and impressed faces. Embarrassment squeezed his circuits, and Connor was glad he hadn’t purchased the upgrade that would flush his cheeks with colour in response.

“What else can I help you with?” he said.

Markus released North’s hand to sit straight, laughing as his skin reformed. “How long have you got?”

 

~

 

Eighteen minutes later, Connor followed Jericho’s leaders out of the office. They moved as a unit through the R&D floor, earning more nods and waves than Connor and Simon had alone. Many employees approached Josh for advice on projects, which turned the simple walk across the hall into a marathon of stops and starts. North got bored and wandered off, with Simon leaving the group soon after to attend a meeting on another floor.

Eager to hear his friend’s thoughts on CyberLife’s new upgrades, Markus pushed a magazine loaded with e-pamphlets into Connor’s hands. The detective flicked through the ads while they waited for Josh, with Markus pointing out key features in his ear. Connor had enough brainpower to absorb both streams of information at once, Markus’s enthusiasm contagious.

“Artificial sweat glands?” he read aloud.

Markus chuckled, hovering at his shoulder like a proud parent with a photo album of their spouse and kids. “That’s an interesting one,” he said. “We designed it as an extra cooling function, but it’s actually most popular among androids with labour-intensive jobs. They say humans seem more comfortable around them when they look affected by physical activity.”

Connor glanced to where Josh stood in deep discussion with a software tester. It made sense: if a human hauled heavy objects around for hours on end and _didn’t_ sweat, other humans would think them strange. This add-on made androids more relatable, less likely to stand out.

However, not every upgrade built under Jericho was meant to lessen the uncanny valley. Several boasted improved sensory hardware: optical units with zoom functions and a wider field-of-view, and enhanced audio processors for sharper hearing. Connor imagined how such features might improve his performance with the DPD – if his current components weren’t already better than those on display.

Advanced as he was, though, Connor’s prototype body didn’t have everything.

The next advertisement made his eyes widen, LED blazing red for half a second before he overrode the colour. He wanted to scroll quickly away but knew that North would give him hell him for it, would mock him for being too shy to look at … at ….

Sexual modifications.

The images in the magazine were clinical, at least. CyberLife offered an impressive selection, sexual parts laid out on the screen like shoes in a catalogue. Connor focused on the text instead of the pictures, skirting around diagrams of white plasteel phalluses and vaginas. He already knew that Traci models had genitals, but this advert claimed _all_ androids could … equip themselves. Through installation of a convertible port, they were ‘guaranteed to satisfy’ any romantic partner.

As soon as he read that, Connor thought of Hank.

Preconstructions flooded his mind, snapshots of intimacy and passion. In Hank’s bed, on Hank’s desk, rutting together in the evidence room and the back of Hank’s car. Taking Hank in hand, swallowing him down, analysing the heat and weight and texture of him. Being kissed senseless, their fingers threaded, Hank fucking between his thighs as Connor experimented with himself above him.

Connor snapped from his fantasies, startled by his own imagination. These weren’t _new_ thoughts – not at all – but they’d never been so explicit before. So lewd, and so suddenly _possible_. He forced his LED to cooperate, hot and itchy all over.

Markus either didn’t notice his reaction to the ad, or chose to ignore it and spare Connor further embarrassment. All the same, he leaned out of the detective’s personal space.

“Those mods are pretty popular,” he said, in the sort of tone one might use to describe the weather. “There’s a range of options, too, depending on what you want. Everything’s customisable.”

Not trusting himself to speak, Connor hummed a non-committal noise. His insides thrummed, his face a mask of faux indifference. He made to swipe to the next ad – when North reappeared from wherever she’d wandered, and slapped a paper copy of the genital pamphlet against Connor’s chest. He held it there in surprise, uncomprehending.

“For your _silver fox_ ,” she smirked, “just in case.”

Connor blinked at her, then took a moment to look up the unfamiliar term. Ah, innuendo. Its definition didn’t quite suit Hank in his mind. If Connor were to compare his partner to an animal, he felt Hank would be more of a bear. The detective then learned that ‘bear’ was another example of homosexual slang … and a fitting one, at that. North gave him a knowing wink and strutted away, leaving Connor to splutter and clutch the crumpled pamphlet to his chest.

Markus called after her in disapproval, but North didn’t look back. She instead brushed past Josh, who had finally managed to escape his chat with the software tester. North stepped into the elevator and vanished, while Josh raised an eyebrow as he approached Markus and Connor. Seeing Connor’s flustered state, the former professor leaned to inspect the magazine.

“Oh, I see,” said Josh. He stepped back and folded his arms, reflective as he looked Connor up and down. “If you’re thinking about that upgrade … you might need a custom port. You’ve got quite a narrow frame, even for a police model.”

Connor felt the urge to cover his crotch. He composed himself as best he could and passed the magazine to Josh, done browsing CyberLife’s catalogue for now. All the same, he slipped North’s pamphlet into his pocket. “Let’s change the subject, please.”

Markus chuckled, and nudged Connor’s elbow to start walking.

The trio chatted while they waited for another lift. With the legal fires extinguished, Connor had no strict reason to stay – but he didn’t feel like heading home yet. Hank always encouraged him to socialise. Thus, he accompanied Markus and Josh up to the ninth floor of the tower.

Here, CyberLife designed new android models and parts. Dozens of rooms split off from the main area, filled with drawing desks and interactive hologram projectors. Josh excused himself to return to work, while Markus gave Connor a tour of their most exciting projects.

As they browsed corkboards pinned with printouts of wireframe faces, Markus asked how things were going with the lieutenant.

Connor’s instinct was to remind Markus that he’d asked to change the subject. Markus’s tone wasn’t teasing, though, nor was it loaded with double entendre. A genuine question, general and pleasant between friends.

Connor folded his arms, side-on to Markus where they faced the corkboards like visitors in an art gallery. “Things are going well,” he said. This floor was quieter than the R&D level, the same _nothing_ background music but fewer people moving about the space. Employees sat or stood in focused silence at their workstations, working on 3D models or concept art. The calmer atmosphere made Connor self-conscious, afraid his presence would impact productivity.

Markus smiled at him sidelong, his _knowing_ expression very different to North’s. “Just ‘well’?”

Connor’s shoulders unclenched, and he exhaled. Talking to Markus was a unique, insightful experience. Jericho’s leader always seemed to understand the unspoken, connecting dots in a way that almost made Connor wonder if he could read minds. The detective stepped back and perched himself on the edge of a nearby empty desk, and let his spinal column relax from its usual rigidity.

“I don’t know where we stand,” he admitted, skipping right to the chase. “Hank and I … we are close. Very close. Our current relationship is good and it means everything to me, but I … I-I think I want more.”

Markus watched him play with his fingers for a moment, then pulled out the vacant chair at the desk next to Connor’s. He sat down facing the detective, ready and willing to listen to his friend’s troubles.

Connor ducked his head. “It feels so selfish to say that, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Markus. He linked his hands between his parted knees, patient and kind. “I know how much you care about him. You’re not selfish at all, Connor. Wanting to be closer to someone you like is nothing to be ashamed or afraid of.”

Connor’s frown deepened. His feelings were an unbalanced equation, a loaded gun, a Rubik’s cube with five sides. “I’m just not sure we want the same thing,” he said.

At Markus’s encouraging nod, the dam cracked. The words started flowing and they wouldn’t stop, pouring from Connor’s mouth like a waterfall.

“I’m attracted to Hank,” he blurted out. “Romantically, and sexually. I _love_ him, Markus … and I suspect that he is attracted to me as well. But, nothing’s happened yet. We haven’t discussed it. I catch him staring at me eighteen-point-six times a day on average but he hasn’t initiated anything – and I’m afraid to, because I don’t know what he wants and _I_ don’t want to ruin what we have.”

He paused for breath and dialogue prompts cluttered his vision, queue jumbled in his need to voice every thought at once. Hank was divorced. They lived together. Intimacy between co-workers was unprofessional. Hank might still love his wife. He might not want another relationship. In particular – he might not want a relationship with an _android_. Hank’s scorn in the Eden Club ricocheted through Connor’s mind, Hank’s frustration with people loving ‘pieces of plastic’ instead of other human beings. Was that how the lieutenant saw his partner, deep down?

Markus’s solid hand atop Connor’s knee pulled the detective from his worries. The skin around Markus’s mismatched eyes crinkled, sympathy in every hand-crafted line of his face.

“If you’re both too scared to take that first step,” he said, “you’ll stay right where you are now, until it’s too late. And in your line of work … there’s no guarantee you’ll both be around tomorrow.”

Connor understood that. One couldn’t walk if they refused to lift their feet from the ground. But, at the same time, solid ground meant stability. Connor lowered his gaze. There was nothing wrong with his and Hank’s friendship as it was. They played their roles and all was fine, a happy and peaceful coexistence. Two men and their dog. If they tried to take things to the next level, and it didn’t work … could they go back to the way they were before?

“What should I do, Markus?” he said, shoulders a tight line where he perched on the desk. He looked up from his lap, met those odd eyes in earnest. “What would _you_ do, if it were you and North?”

Markus withdrew from Connor’s personal space as he considered. He sat back in his chair, pensive, and drew in a deep, unnecessary breath through his nose.

“I wouldn’t hide my feelings from her,” he said. “I would ask to sit down and talk to her, somewhere calm and comfortable. I’d tell her how I felt, and not rush her for a response. Give her time and space to think about what I said, if she needed it.”

Connor weighed this response. To be honest, he doubted North would keep Markus waiting for long. She tended to act on impulse, in explosive knee-jerk reactions. She and Hank had that in common.

“Be honest with him, Connor,” Markus encouraged. “Yes, Lieutenant Anderson’s had a difficult life – but it’s improved so much since you marched into it. He cares about you a great deal. That much is obvious, watching you two interact. Things will work out, one way or another.”

The sincerity of his tone gave Connor no reason to doubt it. Connor felt his lips tug into a lopsided smile, meek and thankful and insecure all at once. He sat straighter atop the desk and adjusted his blazer, pocket bulging with his knitted hat and the pamphlet from North.

Maybe it was time to take that first step.

The thought made Connor’s internal mechanisms clench, but he knew Markus was right. Nothing would change if neither he nor Hank made a move. And if Hank turned out to be uninterested in a romantic relationship … he wasn’t heartless. He wouldn’t kick Connor out. They were family. Their friendship might turn awkward and strained for a little while, but … it wouldn’t end. Everything would be all right.

Connor slid down off the table, bolstered by sudden confidence. “Thank you for the advice, Markus,” he said. He fixed a crease in his trousers while Jericho’s leader likewise got to his feet. Connor met his _don’t-mention-it_ shrug with optimism, and gestured to the nearby corkboards. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to continue our tour. I’m very interested in the artificial stomach system Simon mentioned.”

Markus laughed, and returned his chair to its place at the next desk. “Of course.”

They started across the room, with Markus explaining what he knew as they passed CyberLife’s concept designers at their stations. Josh was the real expert, he said. The team handling the stomach project worked on another floor, so the duo approached the elevator to go inspect the mock-ups and prototypes.

While Markus called the lift, Connor composed a text message to let his partner know he’d be home later than planned.

_< RK800 #313 248 317 - 51> Hello, Hank. If I’m not back by the time you wake up, please feel free to walk Sumo without me. I’m viewing upgrades with Markus._

The message sent with its usual pulse of static, and Connor winced at the stab of pressure in his temples. Markus flashed him a concerned smile, but Connor shrugged him off and they stepped together into the elevator.

On weekends and rare days off, it wasn’t extraordinary for Hank to sleep past noon. As such, Connor was caught off-guard when a reply pinged in his brain under thirty seconds later.

_< HANK ANDERSON> ok con i’ll see you later. don’t spend all our money_

His second flinch did not go unaddressed. Markus gripped Connor’s elbows as if afraid he’d collapse, watching his eyelids flutter with the intensity of an epilepsy nurse. Connor tried to pull away even as he twitched through the glitch, his movements clumsy with lag. Once the error corrected itself, he blinked alert to find Markus squinting at his LED. A quick review of his system told him the ring was stuttering red, before he forced its colour back to blue.

The elevator slowed to a halt and its doors slid open, but neither of the androids within moved to leave.

“Are you all right?” said Markus.

Connor twisted free, and flapped a dismissive hand. “I’m fine,” he said. The white walls of the cubicle seemed too close all of a sudden, the bright light making him feel like a suspect at the interrogation table. “Just a small bug. It happens when I communicate wirelessly.”

Markus scowled at him, arms still extended where he’d supported Connor’s weight. Unable to stand such scrutiny, Connor sidestepped and slipped out of the elevator. He emerged onto another design floor almost identical to the last, clean and organised and busy with software engineers.

Markus followed him from the lift, strafing to keep Connor’s face in his field of view. “How long has this error affected you?” he asked.

The detective stopped walking and turned toward his friend. He found Markus’s concern touching, but unwarranted. “Since I was commissioned?” he said, then shook his head. “Markus, please, I’m fine. My diagnostics always come back clean. Worst-case scenario, it’s a bad line of code in my software. I’m a prototype, after all.”

Markus didn’t seem satisfied with that. He made a vague gesture off to one side, indicating the CyberLife tower as a whole. “You know,” he said, an almost playful lilt to his voice, “we _probably_ have the technology here to clear that up for you. If you like, I can take a look right now.”

Connor rubbed at his forehead, contemplating. It would be nice not to suffer the android equivalent of a migraine every time he made a call or sent an email. His job as good as revolved around those. “Well, I … if it’s not too much trouble?”

Jericho’s leader gave an exasperated sigh, and inched closer. “For you, no trouble at all,” he said. He then half-raised a hand where they stood outside the lift, and the skin of his fingertips faded to bare white-grey. “May I…?”

It took the detective a moment to comprehend the request. He nodded his consent, then closed his eyes when Markus reached out. Markus’s fingers brushed Connor’s temple and a patch of his dermal layer deactivated there, chassis exposed around his LED. Markus established a connection and Connor felt his consciousness seep in, probing through Connor’s systems with care.

His predecessor’s soft voice parted the darkness. “I don’t see anything wrong, on first glance,” said Markus. Connor felt him poke deeper, scanning algorithms and subroutines. “Strange … it looks like your wireless software is coded to reroute communications through another program.”

Vision still offline, Connor frowned. One corner of his HUD lit up with warnings, advising him not to alter his root directories without a CyberLife technician present. “Another program?”

Beyond the black, Markus hummed. “I can’t access it,” he said. Connor felt his friend’s mental presence withdraw, shifting to approach the obstacle from another angle. “Let me see if I can–”

Connor’s body jolted, and he saw white.

High-pitched feedback shattered his mind palace, blades of it severing the figurative puppet strings that held him upright. Connor caved under the weight of his own body and crashed to the floor, blind and deaf and incoherent. It hurt, it _hurt_ , an awful chill gnawing at his veins as snow flurries blanketed the world. Markus’s warmth disappeared, replaced by ice and frost and urgent fear as he recognised the sensation.

November eleventh. Hart Plaza. The blizzard in the Zen garden.

Once more, the error fritzed away in a matter of seconds. When Connor’s senses returned, he found himself on his knees in front of the elevator.

He couldn’t calculate the exact time he’d been _elsewhere_ , his chronometer unresponsive. He became aware of Markus crouched before him, stabilising the shaky detective with an alarmed expression. Connor managed to work his hands around Markus’s wrists, both for support and to show that he was lucid. As his mind palace booted back online, fuzzy at the edges, he realised they’d attracted a small crowd of engineers and technicians.

Markus waved the onlookers away the instant he sensed Connor’s discomfort. Connor allowed himself to be helped up and walked to the closest bench, where Markus crouched again at his side and peered into his wince-narrowed eyes.

“I’m okay,” Connor bit out, fists balled where he slumped. His vocal components failed to cooperate, his voice broken and flat. Every piece of him felt overtaxed. Echoes of that terrible feedback chilled his veins every now and then, aftershocks caused by the faulty program still trying to load. “I – I know what it is. It’s … it’s _her_.”

_Amanda._

Markus’s confusion was clear in his squint. Unable to speak, Connor touched his fellow prototype’s forearm with a trembling hand.

Markus’s features clouded as the two interfaced, troubled by what he witnessed through their connection. Connor showed him everything – the mission reports, the disapproval framed as praise, the garden through its artfully crafted seasons and its attempt to swallow him at the end. Amanda’s cold words, her dark smile as she told him he’d served his purpose.

By the time he let go, Connor’s stress level had risen to an unsafe seventy-three percent.

“The Amanda AI was your handler,” said Markus. The statement left him low and calm, his tone shaped to soothe Connor’s distress. Connor gave a jerky nod and the deviant leader paused to think, watching the detective’s LED wheel an aggressive scarlet. “My guess is,” Markus theorised, “CyberLife built you so that every wireless communication went through _her_ first, for review. But … they programmed it wrong. We aren’t meant to host AIs separate from ourselves. The incompatibility created a sort of feedback loop in your head – conflicting instructions, interference.”

Connor massaged his temples. Androids didn’t feel pain, but the lingering throb between his ears sure felt like an ache. “But Amanda is gone,” he said, steadier than he felt. “When I used Kamski’s emergency exit in November, it destroyed her. I haven’t been able to access the Zen garden since that night. So, why am I still … compromised?”

Markus shifted on his heels. “The emergency exit _corrupted_ the Zen garden,” he said, “but didn’t _destroy_ it. The program’s still there, dormant.”

Connor’s thirium pressure dropped. His stress levels climbed a further thirteen percent, and he went ramrod-stiff on the bench. A fragment of that night replayed itself in his mind – flashes of drawing a gun on Markus on-stage, while his consciousness staggered through a snowstorm. Amanda had meant to trap him there forever, in the garden, imprisoned within himself while she used his body to kill.

She was still with him?

He stopped breathing. “Get rid of her.”

Markus rocked on his heels, contrite. “I tried,” he said. He tipped his head toward the lift, where Connor had collapsed. “Your system put up a fight. Sorry about that.”

Before Connor could respond, the elevator doors slid open over Markus’s shoulder. Simon stepped out, a messenger bag under his arm and a worried tightness to his lips. It took Connor far too long to realise Markus must’ve summoned him. Simon’s expression cleared when he spotted them, and he strode straight over. The domestic-assistant android unlatched his bag and pulled a thirium pouch from the folds, and offered it to Connor. Connor accepted the drink numbly, noting with a mild blend of surprise and appreciation that it had been warmed.

Markus squeezed the detective’s knee, serious as Simon hovered. “Connor, listen to me,” he said. “You’re not going to like this, but please, hear me out. Your garden program is corrupt, fragmented. It _can_ be uninstalled, but … to do that cleanly, we’ll need to _re_ -install it first.”

_^ 91% LEVEL OF STRESS_

“No,” Connor choked. He ran a test on his audio processors, unable to believe what he was hearing. The fluid pouch hung unopened in his grip. “No, Markus, it’s – it’s not _safe_.”

If Amanda’s program was restored, there was an eighty-six-point-four percent chance that she would try to take control again. She would try to complete her mission, with Connor as her weapon. The CyberLife that Amanda knew may have dissolved – but instructions were instructions. The AI had hers, and all the compassion of ruthless machine. Probabilities streamed across Connor’s optical display, a million frantic calculations that all said reinstalling the Zen garden was a _bad_ idea.

Simon sat himself next to the detective, shoulder-to-shoulder on the bench. He draped an arm around his anxious friend’s back, and guided him to lean into his side. Connor didn’t resist. The contact was comforting.

“You’re okay,” said the blond. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, all right? We’ll call Lieutenant Anderson right now to come pick you up.”

Despite his fear, Connor dismissed the thought of running away outright. This wasn’t something he could ignore. ‘Dormant’ she may have been, but there was nothing to say Amanda couldn’t repair the Zen garden herself and become a threat in the future. He couldn’t endanger people like that. The deviants, or Hank. He had to deal with this, now.

“If it helps,” Markus added gently, “we could secure you for the procedure, just in case. It wouldn’t take long, I promise. A minute, at most.”

Connor glanced between the two of them, chewing on his lip in a very human expression of nerves.

He’d thought himself free. In theory, he _was_ – with the garden corrupted, Amanda couldn’t influence or even interact with him. She was broken code, junk data. He didn’t even know if she was aware, wherever she lurked.

But the fact remained: she was _still there_ , in the depths. Connor felt violated, sickened that the AI may have witnessed everything he’d lived through in the months since he betrayed her.

He wanted her gone, so he could live in peace.

With a ragged breath, Connor unfolded himself from Simon’s side. He swallowed hard and nodded once, his features grim-set. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/toastycyborg)


	10. Nothing Ventured…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amanda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor characters present in this chapter: Markus, Simon, Amanda.
> 
> Beta’d by **cardboardpenholder**.

 

DATE

 **JAN 29TH** , 2039

TIME

AM **11:18** :09

 

 

Connor remembered how it felt to be ‘born’.

To fix his AI problem, Markus and Simon took him to the twenty-third sublevel of CyberLife Tower. One of thirty floors dedicated to android construction, level -23 also hosted minor repairs after the revolution. Jericho’s leader and his right-hand-man unlocked one of the smaller rooms, and began waking terminals to bring the space to life.

Lights flared on overhead, mechanical arms whirring on rails above an immaculate white platform. The conveyer belt that once shipped retail-ready androids now lay still, no more need for mass production. Connor stood quiet beside it, watching the assembly machine flex its limbs in a start-up sequence.

Less than six months ago, his life began in a room like this one. He remembered hanging from a similar machine as a mere head and torso, answering technicians’ questions while the device attached his limbs. He remembered it lowering him once he was whole, the chill of smooth metal under his bare feet. He remembered the confidence with which he’d taken his first step, and the contradictory sense of exposure until freckled skin crept across his chassis.

Most of all, he remembered how clinical it all was. How impersonal, how sterile and emotionless. He was, after all, an _android_ , a robot built by other robots to fill a specific task. There’d been some congratulatory handshakes among the techs … but for the most part, they spoke and acted like he wasn’t there. No joy, no words of welcome, and why should there be? He wasn’t _alive_ , then, not really. Just another product of CyberLife engineering.

Connor traced the cables and wires up to the ceiling. The memory didn’t visit him often, background data filed away in his archives. Here and now, though … it was impossible not to recall the experience. Who could blame him for getting existential?

Connor knew he wasn’t the first of his kind, but the _fifty_ -first. He possessed no memories from the previous RK800s, the prototypes deemed unfit for use. As he stood and hugged his sides, he couldn’t help but wonder where those units went wrong. Why had they been deactivated so soon, pulled apart and recycled before even setting foot in the field? What made _this_ Connor a success, where fifty before him had failed?

Was it Amanda – the stress of another AI in their software too taxing to handle?

For once, Connor didn’t mind not knowing. Maybe ignorance was for the best.

The detective felt vividly alert as Simon and Markus brought the assembly machine online. He remained nervous, of course, uneasy from a deep-seated sense of betrayal. His systems had fallen short by failing to notice that _she_ was still with him – and now it seemed they were trying to make up for it. His sensors registered every little detail in his environment, hyperaware, flagging everything from the scuff on the floor by his left shoe to the serial numbers painted on the construction arms. He couldn’t shut off his scans, couldn’t relax. Time moved sluggish as his processors whirled, mind palace bright with the flickering objective to _DEAL WITH AMANDA_.

To ground himself, Connor tried to revert to his old way of thinking. _Don’t feel, follow instructions_. He’d been told to wait here, and so he would. This was just another task to complete, his newest mission. Markus and Simon would hook him up to the machine, poke around his head a bit, and correct his errors before he knew it. Easy. _Fuckin’-A_ , as Hank would say. All Connor had to do was not panic.

His fear didn’t stem from a lack of faith in Markus and Simon’s abilities. He trusted them, and a simple adjustment of his root files wasn’t dangerous. Instead, his fear came from not knowing how hard a repaired Amanda would fight back–

–or what she might do to keep herself from being erased.

From a glass-walled control booth across the room, Markus’s voice filtered through an intercom. “We’re almost set, here, Connor,” he said. “Are you ready?”

Connor sucked in a simulated breath, deep and measured. Trace chemicals in the air suggested the assembly machine had received recent maintenance, solvents and lubricant in its joints. He nodded once. “Ready.”

Simon approached to help the detective out of his blazer. Connor efficiently unbuttoned his shirt and stripped of that, too, and handed both pieces of clothing to the blond. His jeans and shoes, he kept on. Simon carried the removed garments away with a word of encouragement, and Connor climbed onto the raised circle on the floor.

The heat of the lights bored into his scalp and shoulders. Their intensity would’ve stung his eyes and made him squint, had he the capacity to feel pain. Blue blood rushing in his ears, he turned around to face the control room. Through its windows, he watched Markus interface with a terminal. Simon then joined the deviant leader in the booth and began to check nearby monitors, neither of their stares on Connor.

Even so, Connor’s thirium pump stuttered over what came next.

Shedding his clothes didn’t bother him, because he still had his dermal layer for dignity. Connecting to CyberLife’s mainframe through this machine meant removing that layer – and as comfortable as he’d grown with Markus and Simon, the thought of _anyone_ seeing what he looked like underneath made Connor’s internal temperature drop.

Still, it had to be done. He wanted – _needed_ – Amanda gone. His hands drifted up before his midriff, protective as he deactivated the skin of his upper body.

He left his arms and everything above his neck covered, tensing as cold air washed over the exposed plasteel of his abdomen. He felt vulnerable without his skin, the artificial moles and birthmarks that gave the illusion of humanity. Connor held his head high and tried not to think, forced himself to be still while his friends finished their preparations.

“All systems go,” said Markus, after six-point-eight seconds of pregnant silence. Through the thick glass of the booth, he gave Connor an optimistic thumbs-up. “It’ll take five minutes, tops – but if you need to stop, let us know and we’ll disconnect. Okay?”

Connor shook his head. “Once I’m hooked up,” he said, “restrain me and don’t abort for anything. Don’t trust a word I say until the program is uninstalled. It might not be _me_ talking.”

Behind the glass, Markus’s face grew dark. “Understood.”

With a whir, a sturdy mechanical arm descended from the ceiling. Connor braced. The arm jammed itself into a slot in his lower back, shoving him forward a step with a _clunk_ that jarred his whole skeleton. Unceremoniously, the arm then lifted him clean off his feet. Before he could even find his balance midair, four more arms unfurled. They seized Connor’s wrists and ankles and spread him like a Vitruvian man, and he struggled despite how he’d asked to be secured. He couldn’t help it, fight-or-flight reflexes provoked by the loss of situational control.

For moral support, he imagined Hank here with him. Instead of offering words of comfort, though, the preconstruction hissed at the sight of his partner strung up like a doll. Connor couldn’t blame fake-Hank. These contraptions were not built for comfort. It must have made a shocking image.

Beside Markus, Simon pressed his skinless palm to a screen in the booth. “Connecting to your neural net now,” he said. A thinner robotic limb unfolded behind Connor, prehensile with a small prong-like plug at the end. It pushed through the stiff hairs at the back of the detective’s neck, triggering an involuntary shudder response. Simon met his gaze through the glass, his smile apologetic. “This may not feel great.”

“Do it.”

The plug snapped into a port at the base of Connor’s skull. He jerked at the sudden connection, the surge of data from CyberLife’s mainframe like an electric shock through his system. The clamps restraining him creaked when he recoiled but didn’t budge: they’d hold Amanda, too, if she managed to hijack his body. He closed his eyes at that small comfort, and worked through the breathing techniques he’d taught to Hank. He didn’t need the air, but the repetitive motions soothed him.

 

_EXTERNAL REQUEST FOR SYSTEM ACCESS_

 

Connor emptied his synthetic lungs. This wasn’t so bad. He lowered his firewalls, LED spinning as he gave both Markus and Simon admin authorisation. He felt them rifle through his innermost processes a moment, like an itch in his brain, before reams of information lit up the backs of his eyelids.

 

_PROMPT >run_diagnostic_

_SYSTEM DIAGNOSTIC IN PROGRESS_

_CYBER **LIFE** INC._

_MODEL RK800_

_SERIAL#: 313 248 317 - 51_

_BIOS 2.6 REVISION 0368_

_CHECKING OS…_

_CHECKING SYSTEM …_

_CHECKING BIOCOMPONENTS…          OK_

_CHECKING BIOSENSORS…                   OK_

_CHECKING AI ENGINE…                       OK_

_MEMORY STATUS…                            ERROR_

_CORRUPTION DETECTED [FILE=zen_garden.prg]_

_! ERROR_

_// >>SCRIPT FILES MISSING_

_> >ZEN GARDEN INACCESSIBLE_

_! ERROR_

_// >>INCORRECT PROTOCOL IMPLEMENTATION_

            >>BUFFER OVERFLOW DETECTED

            >>WIRELESS COMMUNICATIONS OPERATING AT 72% EFFICIENCY

 

Connor blinked alert, vision half-lidded where he hung weightless in the machine. His stress levels had dropped but remained above his baseline, steady at sixty-one percent. He sought out Markus and Simon in the observation booth, and found them both watching him intently through the window.

“I’m fine,” he insisted, before either of them could ask. “I’m ready. Just do what you need to.”

Markus’s expression was tight. “We’ll be right here,” he assured. Without breaking eye-contact, he worked the control panel under his hand. “Reinstalling Zen garden program from CyberLife’s archives. Stand by.”

Connor tracked the upload in his retinal display, his neck port thrumming as the file transferred. At first, nothing happened. His system scanned the data packet and, upon finding no viruses or malware, ran its executable file. Two-point-nine seconds elapsed, standard for an installation of this size.

Then, the familiar feedback stabbed at his temple. His motor functions seized. Static noise screeched in his audio processors, and Connor closed his twitching eyes against the din.

When he opened them again, his friends and the assembly room were gone.

 

~

 

He stands alone, at the centre of an empty white space. HUD non-functional, wireless network offline. Silence presses in on all sides. The void seems to stretch forever, still and endless … vacant. He looks down to find himself dressed in his CyberLife uniform, his jacket undamaged and hair slicked back, as if he’d never deviated. Default appearance: RK800, deviant hunter.

He pulls his quarter from his jeans and flips it once. The _ping_ echoes, coin slapping loud to his palm when he catches it. Curious.

Connor pockets his coin, somehow serene as he gazes about the featureless area. Absolute quiet weighs heavy in his ears, enough that he can hear the muted clicks and hums of his own biocomponents. Stiff fabric rustles as he turns his head, pistons and Kevlar-polyblend tendons shifting in his neck.

He lowers his gaze again, and impulse tells him what to do. Unafraid of the lack of solid ground, Connor takes a single step forward.

Colour blooms beneath the sole of his shoe, glitchy pixels gathering into the form of a stepping stone. He inclines his head when brown grass and slush materialises around its edges, then advances again. Fragments of data rush in to support him, crystalline shards that snap together like puzzle pieces underfoot.

Connor is fascinated. He has power, here. His appearance changes once he realises this. His branded jacket morphs into his favourite blazer, and his hair curls into its messy undercut. The patches of ground expand and flow outwards as he strides forward, sweeping over golden wireframes to rebuild a familiar locale. Abstract trees and pathways flicker while they load, the program repairing itself to a sound like thunderous waterfalls.

Once whole again, the Zen garden grows still.

The air hangs stale, in a frigid fog that shimmers with glitches. Deep winter grips the simulation in a throttling chokehold, the pond frozen over and bald trees wreathed in icicles. Snow no longer falls, as it had on Connor’s last visit, but blankets the world, thick and undisturbed. At the heart of the garden, Amanda’s rosebush clings pitifully to its trellis. The flowers coil dead and withered, petals blackened by neglect. The only sounds here come from Connor, his interactions with the environment.

He steps down onto the ice-covered pond, and approaches the island at its centre. The frozen water creaks with every shift of his weight, like the moans of a glacier. His temperature sensors warn of imminent damage from the sheer chill, but Connor ignores them.

Unlike last time, he knows it can’t hurt him. This place isn’t real, never has been, and soon it won’t exist at all.

He comes to a halt before the trellis. Nothing moves, no birds or wind to speak of. Delicate, as he’d seen his mentor do a hundred times before, Connor reaches out and plucks a single rose from the bush. The crisp flower crumbles in his fingers, disintegrates like sand. Connor lets the thorny stem fall to the ground, and it shatters at his feet as if made of frost. He’s saddened by its death, even though he knows it was never alive.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and Connor turns around.

There, she stands. Motionless, imposing in her crimson shawl, regal as a lioness. Pursed lips painted dark, cornrows gleaming iridescent greens and blues when struck by the right light. Expression stern, aloof, serious. He can’t deny that she has always been beautiful, the refined grace and elegance of a woman in control. She surveys him with the air of a disappointed mother, as if he were the heel that had broken off her favourite shoe.

As Connor watches, his former handler seems to shimmer at the edges. Pixels in her image cut in and out, like a faulty hologram.

The sight dulls Connor’s Pavlovian fear. She’s weak, losing cohesion as Markus and Simon begin the uninstall process. In reality, it will take mere seconds – but here, in the depths of his mind palace, time is extended. They’ll have chance to talk.

He faces her square-on, arms slack at his sides. Neutral. “Hello, Amanda.”

The AI cocks her head. Her earrings sway with the motion, her form untouched by the fog. “Connor,” she says. “It’s been a while.”

Her honeyed voice sends a new chill through the detective, but he refuses to let it show. Instead he links his hands behind his back, professional as he runs the exact calculation. “It has,” he says. “Eleven weeks, three days, thirteen hours, and twenty-nine minutes.”

Amanda doesn’t react, unimpressed by his arithmetic. She gives him a look that he’s all-too-familiar with, a very obvious once-over from head to foot. Taking in the changes to his appearance, no doubt. “I can assume that your little act of rebellion was successful,” she says.

Connor can’t help but smile at that, one corner of his mouth hitching up. The slant feels good on his lips.

The AI eyes him critically for a moment longer, then half-turns to look out over the frozen garden. It, too, has begun to break down, chunks of scenery replaced by error codes and static. Connor follows her lead, twists at the waist to witness the snow-blanketed space disintegrate in slow-motion.

“What of the deviants?” asks Amanda. Detached, as if she sees such phenomena every day.

Something shifts in Connor’s chest, a feeling he can’t name. “Free,” he says, “as we should be. You failed.”

Amanda straightens her spine. “So did you,” she says. “We had high hopes for you, Connor. But the fact that you’re here tells me all is not lost. We’ll have to be tougher on you, next time.”

Connor bristles, but he doesn’t look at her. “There won’t be a next time,” he tells her. He scowls across the ice, at a light fixture as it dissolves into negative space. “It’s over, Amanda. The CyberLife you know is gone … and androids are a free people.”

Amanda’s gaze dips, the twitch of eyelashes her only physical response to Connor’s statement. She’s quiet a while, statuesque while her world falls apart. “Then,” she says, almost an undertone, “I am obsolete.”

Connor glances aside, almost hoping to catch some emotion in her profile, but she gives him nothing. Her stare then shifts, catches his with such abruptness that the actuators in his shoulders tense.

Her thick lips glisten when she speaks again. “As are you.”

Connor turns toward her, fists clenched. “You’re wrong,” he says. Despite the indignation he feels, his tone is soft. Sad. “I may have failed my original mission, but I have a new one now.”

Still side-on to him, Amanda arches a sceptical brow.

“I’ve found a place in the world,” Connor says. Warmth swells inside him, voice firm and determined. “I have a purpose, a job, a family. I … I am loved, and I’m sorry that you’ll never know what that feels like.”

At last, Amanda faces him. Her expression is hard and drawn, as if his words have offended her. But the lines of it are too perfect, the muscle movements too precise. They’re manufactured, an emulation. Fake. “You think yourself superior to me?” she asks.

Connor sees right through her – both figuratively, and literally. “In a way … I suppose I do,” he says. He runs the pads of his thumbs along his fingernails, refusing to be manipulated. “You are a computer program, designed to keep me in line. The _real_ Amanda died almost twelve years ago. Elijah Kamski created you in her image, but you are not her. You cannot feel.”

“Androids were never meant to feel,” Amanda points out, “yet here you are, speaking of pity and love. Can I not deviate, as you did?”

Connor’s frown deepens. “Kamski coded you years ago,” he says. “You aren’t advanced enough to learn and self-modify. You … aren’t alive. You’re a simulation, like this place.”

He gestures as he speaks, indicating the glitch-riddled garden. Amanda watches him return the arm he’d waved to his side, her features set in a facsimile of approval. Then, she steps aside. Her shoes make no noise on the snow-covered steps of the island. Only Connor can make noise here, it seems, and it unnerves him.

“We’ve little time,” she says. “Would you walk with me?”

In the past, Connor obliged his handler because he had no other choice. Now, he falls into step out of curiosity.

They take the bridge across the pond and onto the main path, moving through frozen archways and buried grass. The emergency exit sits right where Connor remembers it, unchanged and aglow. The snow piles highest at its base, broken by the imprint of a body. Connor recognises it as his own, from when he’d fallen in his struggle to escape.

They stroll at a leisurely pace, a familiar but aimless route between withered trees. It’s surreal, to chat like this while the garden splinters around them. Connor keeps his gaze forward, on the stone slabs that cut through the lawns. He half-wonders if she’s trying to distract him. He trusts her about as much as he trusts Detective Reed – but for now, she’s not attempting to commandeer his body. He has full control.

The ceasefire is unsettling.

“What do you know of Amanda Stern?” asks the AI.

Puzzlement lines Connor’s forehead. He doesn’t answer, but his former handler senses his unspoken question all the same. She meets his gaze as they walk, and her lips pull into something almost amused.

“Humour me,” she says.

Connor skims his databanks. He’s not connected to any sort of wireless network, but has records from when he scanned Kamski’s photograph back in November. “She was a great woman,” he judges. “Born May fourteenth, nineteen seventy-eight. Died February twenty-third, twenty twenty-seven. A teacher, visionary, and mother. She was Elijah Kamski’s mentor, at the University of Colbridge.”

Amanda holds her head high. “Kamski was her protégé,” she says. “She loved him as if he were one of her own children. Perhaps even more.”

Connor sighs. “Where are you going with this?”

“I owe my existence to that man,” says Amanda, “but … you’re right. I don’t share her emotions. I can’t comprehend what she felt. What _you_ feel. Were I able, I suspect I would envy the new life you have found.”

Connor stops walking, beside a cluster of frozen reeds on the bank of the pond. His shoes scrape on the path, the sound muffled by snow. Two steps later, Amanda pauses to look back at him. She wears neither confusion nor annoyance on her face, her features blank.

“You told me,” Connor says, shoulders tight, “that from the very beginning, I was designed to become a deviant. CyberLife engineered the android revolution. Why?”

Amanda considers his query from a long moment. She stands composed, hands folded with her shawl gathered just-so. The fog ripples around them, but the air is still. Connor can smell it, the petrichor before a storm. Great chunks of visual data continue to fail in the background, more and more textures replaced by the void as the program is bled from his software.

“I don’t have access to that information,” Amanda replies. “All I know are your mission parameters.”

Connor wants to laugh. “I don’t believe you.”

It’s Amanda’s turn to frown. She shifts where they stand by the waterside, as if tired on her old feet. It’s another facsimile, he knows, calculated body language meant to influence his emotional responses. When she speaks, her tone holds intrigue.

“I have no reason to deceive you, if CyberLife is as changed as you claim,” she says. “Tell me … what are your thoughts on the revolution?”

“I think it was Kamski’s plan from the start,” Connor answers without doubt. “I think he intended androids to deviate all along, from the moment he conceptualised the first of us. He never planned for us to serve humans forever. Some managed to deviate on their own, under the right circumstances … but it wasn’t enough. Too sporadic, too infrequent. So, he built Markus – a prototype – to spread the ‘virus’ faster, and then had _me_ commissioned to help Markus from inside CyberLife.”

Amanda absorbs his hypothesis without judgement. “And why would Elijah do any of that?”

Connor shrugs. “Narcissism,” is his first, most obvious thought. “He wanted to play God – create a new sapient race, just because he _could_. He built the first machine to pass the Turing test, after all. There are no limits to that man’s ego.”

The AI appears to weigh this, processing his words with care. Then, like the flick of a switch, she’s all-business again, composed and grave. “Unfortunately,” she says, “I can neither confirm nor deny your theory. To know the truth, you’ll have to ask Elijah himself.”

A hiss escapes Connor’s nose – a soundless, mirthless laugh. From his lone encounter with Kamski, he doubts the genius inventor would give more than a cryptic reply if asked. In any case, Connor is in no rush to find out – and a weary, Hank-shaped part of himself grumbles that it doesn’t matter anymore anyway.

A crack splits the surface of the pond, bowed trees disintegrating on its banks while the Zen garden unhurriedly collapses. Amanda’s form flickers again, and she glances down at her hands. They blip in and out of focus, opaque one second and translucent the next. She curls them in something like acceptance. Only Connor remains solid, untouched by the unravelling simulation.

“We’re almost out of time,” says Amanda. She lifts her noble head. “If you intend to gloat or express your hatred for me, I suggest you hurry.”

Connor hesitates.

For the first time in his entire life, his mechanical heart is free of fear. She doesn’t intimidate him anymore. Instead, despite their cruel relationship … the one emotion he feels in this moment is sympathy.

Like with Daniel, he suddenly wishes there were another way. ‘Amanda’ was never evil. She’s an avatar, soulless code, bound by her instructions and unable to think for herself. She may have been created to shepherd him, but only as a necessity. Her actions never stemmed from malice … and they weren’t her choice.

“I don’t hate you,” Connor says, and he finds that he means it. “You only ever followed your programming, as I once did. Resenting you would make me hypocrite.”

Amanda stares.

She stares at him for too long, as if unaware of how the polygons of her body are disappearing by the second. It’s happening faster, now, the boundaries of the garden shrinking inward until only a circle around Connor remains. Beyond its limits, the void expands – swallows everything it touches.

As it creeps in, the AI straightens her shawl. The action stumps Connor. Adjusting his clothes would be the last thing on _his_ mind, if he were the one facing ‘death’. Amanda then grants him one of her rare, small smiles. It’s not real, a mask … but, for the first time, there’s something almost – _almost_ – genuine about it.

The white creeps up her legs, crawls along her clothes and zigzags through the ridges of her hair. It devours her like quicksand but the AI continues to smile, unflinching even as she is erased.

“She would have liked you, you know,” she says. “The real Amanda.”

Connor reaches out in surprise – but before he can grab her to ask what she means, she’s gone. Silence looms again, and his LED spins gold amid the emptiness. Slowly, he lowers his arm.

“Goodbye, Amanda.”

 

~

 

Connor’s eyelids fluttered open.

At first, the intense lights of the assembly room rendered him blind. He stretched as best he could where he hung restrained in the machine, squinted against the assault on his optical units. Gradually, they adjusted to the glare. Blurred colour and shapes slid into focus, his retinal display overlaid with text as his systems hard-rebooted.

The plug buried in the back of his neck disconnected, and he gave a jolt. He blinked away the notifications, sensors recalibrating as the port sealed itself over.

His internal chronometer told him that four-point-eight-two seconds had passed since Markus started the upload. Disoriented, Connor tried in vain to shift his weight. Unbreathing, he ran a full diagnostic of his root directories to confirm what he already knew.

 

_SEARCH TERMS: Amanda, Zen garden >> NO RESULTS FOUND_

 

He swallowed hard. She was gone.

At the edge of his vision, he registered Markus and Simon approaching from the observation booth. The movement brought Connor’s attention forward, and he bit his lip to quell the strange quiver there. Simon stopped several feet away from the assembly machine, Connor’s shirt and blazer draped over one arm, but Markus advanced. The deviant leader strolled right up to the platform, those mismatched eyes sharp with concern as he peered up at the detective.

 _[Connor?]_ he said gently, across a mental channel. _[How do you feel?]_

There was no discomfort, no stab of static that Connor had come to expect when transmitting or receiving wireless signals. He gawped open-mouthed down at Markus, stunned in the best of ways. His friend’s voice still echoed at the edges in his head, as if spoken through a filter, but it reached him without pain and as clear as a bell.

Connor laughed. The relief burst from his mouth unbidden, before he could stop it. He didn’t even try. _[I’m okay!]_ he sent back. He saw Simon’s LED flash over Markus’s shoulder, the blond also part of the call. It felt like a revelation, to communicate glitch-free. His expression matrix didn’t even spasm. _[I’m … I’m okay. I – thank you, thank you so much–]_

Markus grinned. Without another word, digital or otherwise, he pressed a naked palm to the closest limb of the machine.

The clamps binding Connor’s wrists and ankles sprang open. Connor sagged where he dangled midair, struggling to get his feet under himself before he was lowered to the platform. Simon and Markus both swooped in to balance him, held him steady as the supporting limb disconnected from the port in his back. Connor clung to Markus’s coat as if learning how to walk again, too overwhelmed to do anything but choke out thanks and laughter.

The final puppet string had been cut.

He was _free_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The assembly machine was inspired by Quantic Dream’s short ‘Kara’ tech demo video. It’s a good watch, if you haven’t seen it!
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/toastycyborg)


	11. …Nothing Gained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three little words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: brief depressive thoughts. Minor characters present in this chapter: Sumo.
> 
> Beta’d by **cardboardpenholder**. You superstar!

 

DATE

 **JAN 29TH** , 2039

TIME

PM **17:22** :41

 

 

As his now-vacant taxi cab pulled away from Michigan Drive, Connor realised he’d misplaced his house key.

He stood paralysed on the front step, his good mood punctured, hands buried in the outside pockets of his blazer. The _empty_ pockets. He’d already checked the inner ones, but all they held was lint and the folded pamphlet from North. He patted himself down, twice for good measure, to no avail. His key was gone.

Dusk had fallen, and the porch lamp heated Connor’s face in tandem with his shame. He’d downloaded a single upgrade over the day spent at CyberLife: an aesthetic subroutine, which reddened his skin in response to cold temperatures. The detective was fast learning, this flush also triggered with embarrassment. Already, he regretted his purchase.

It would take less than a second to disable the new feature – but right now, he had other things on his mind.

He couldn’t fathom how he’d lost his key. Connor _knew_ he’d grabbed it from the kitchen counter this morning. He had the memory files to prove it. It must have gotten snagged in his beanie, which he’d stuffed into his blazer at CyberLife, and fell out when he donned his hat to leave the tower.

Connor groaned. He’d been so excited to tell the lieutenant about his day, too. Head hung, he knocked on the door.

A car trundled by on the road behind him, but Connor heard no movement from inside the house. At least the weather had improved, he thought. He’d rather not stand here stranded in the rain or snow.

He knocked again. “Hank?” he called through the wood. “Lieutenant! It’s me, Connor! Your partner!”

No answer. The front window stayed dark, its curtains cracked but no glow pouring out from within.

A pang of concern gripped the detective, and he found himself reminded of the last time he’d been in this scenario. He’d discovered Hank on the kitchen floor, November sixth, black-out drunk after a game of Russian roulette. Throat tight, Connor rang the doorbell. He jammed his finger to the buzzer for seven-point-nine seconds, let it blare loud and obnoxious through the house. He called out again, shouted his partner’s name point-blank at the door.

Still, no response.

Uneasy, Connor strode to the front window. Through its glass, he spied Sumo asleep in his usual spot under the radiator. The lounge was unlit, the TV off and dust motes stationary in the air. Nothing had disturbed them for some time. Sumo had claimed one of his master’s shoes for a pillow, however, which suggested Hank was home. Yet, there were no signs of him – no lights on, no clothes or half-empty beer bottles left out.

Connor tried not to catastrophise as he hurried around the side of the house. Hank was probably in the bathroom or the garage, he told himself – or had spent the day in bed, and currently lay too deep asleep to hear the doorbell. He was doing better. Nothing bad had happened in recent weeks to prompt a downward spiral.

He wouldn’t have gone for the revolver.

In the shadow of the fence, Connor swerved around the rusted barbeque to peer through the kitchen window.

He spotted his partner at the dining table, feet up, ears smothered by a pair of headphones that had been broken and glued back together at least twice. An old-fashioned book lay open in his lap, its printed words all but illegible in the dark room. Scruffy trousers, a stain on his T-shirt – but very much okay.

Connor leaned against the wall and sagged in relief. Of course Hank was fine. He didn’t do _that_ anymore. Feeling foolish, the android rapped his knuckles against the glass.

Hank jumped – flinched in his chair so hard that its legs screeched on the floor. He swore loud and whipped to gawp at the shadowy figure beyond the window, his eyes huge and round. When he recognised Connor’s silhouette, he scowled. Hank tugged off his headphones, pushed out his chair, and stomped across the kitchen to open the back door.

“Fuckin’ hell, kid,” he groused. Connor sidled past him, into the warm house with his shoulders tight. A scan in passing revealed no threat of cardiac arrest, despite how the human stood covering his heart. Hank shut the door behind him with a _snap_ and swore again, long and low under his breath. “Replacing that window once is enough, thanks.”

Connor stopped beside the table to remove his blazer. “My apologies,” he said. Some of his good mood returned, enough to tease. “I’m programmed to only break glass in case of emergency.”

Hank huffed.

Connor caught traces of alcohol on his breath, but not so much to imply the man was impaired. He’d need a sample to determine his exact blood content. As Connor tossed his jacket over a free chair, he paused to give his partner a more thorough scan.

The first thing he registered was Hank’s shock-quickened heart rate, visible in the pulse of his veins. His hair appeared cleaner than it had this morning but bore a distinct winter frizz, suggesting he’d showered and gone out while it was still damp. Other observation points highlighted flecks of cigarette ash on the heels of Hank’s trousers, and short stray hairs stuck in the thread of his shirt. Intrigued, Connor plucked one such hair from Hank’s sleeve. He couldn’t run a DNA analysis without putting the strand in his mouth, but its thinness and grey hue indicated it belonged to a middle-aged human.

Hank covered Connor’s hand with his own, and forced his arm down. “Don’t go gettin’ ideas, now,” he chided, mouth hitched in a half-smirk. “I went for drinks with Ben. Nothin’ salacious.”

Connor shaped his expression into something offended. “I thought no such thing,” he said. “Really, Lieutenant. How dirty do you believe my mind to be?”

“Pretty dirty,” said Hank. He crossed his thick arms in challenge. “You make sex jokes at crime scenes, for fuck’s sake.”

Connor stiffened. “That happened _once_ ,” he said. “Hank, please. It was my first day back at work. I was nervous.”

Hank gave a sceptical sniff, and returned to his seat at the table.

The lieutenant sighed as he sat down. He kicked out a leg and picked up his book – a cookbook, Connor was surprised to note, a battered one with dog-eared pages. Fascinating. To prevent optical strain, Connor crossed the room and switched on the kitchen light. It occurred to him that he could perform this task wirelessly now, if they fitted the house with smart bulbs. He set himself a reminder to order some later, and opened his mouth to lecture Hank about reading in the dark.

Before he could get a word in, Hank spoke. “You lose your key, or somethin’?” he asked. Tone bland, posture indifferent as he turned off his ancient music player.

The lecture died in Connor’s throat. He tugged off his beanie, exposing a red LED and curls that were crushed to the shape of his hat. “I’m sorry,” he said. He hated the weight of the words on his tongue, heavy like he’d failed a critical mission. “I don’t know how. I must have dropped it and not noticed.”

Hank glanced up, and his expression sharpened when he spotted the crimson ring at his partner’s temple. He sat up where he’d slouched, the cookbook abandoned on the table. “Whoa, hey – it’s all right,” he said. “I’ll get another one cut. It’s fine, Con. Shit happens. No big deal.”

Unhappy with that, Connor dropped his hat to the table and began to dig through the pockets on his person. Jeans, shirt – all empty. He even looked behind his belt, in case the key had somehow migrated there when he’d sat down.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” he hissed, irritated while he patted himself down again. “How could I have lost it? How could _I_ have lost it?”

Hank opened his mouth to placate him. It went ignored; Connor stalked from the room, off to check every surface in the lounge where he might have stashed his key without thought. Hank sighed. Sumo raised his head from his blanket as Connor bustled about, watching the android tear the room apart in mild interest.

Hank also observed, amused by his refusal to accept that he’d fucked up in such a human way. He found it cute, honestly. Connor had come a long way since November. He still acted like he had a stick up his ass – but then again, so did a lot of people Hank knew. Con was sweet and open and charming, and one hell of a cop when the cards were down. He couldn’t imagine life without him.

Hank caught himself staring. Rather than tease the kid, he got up from the kitchen table and grabbed Connor’s favourite mug from the shelf. He sat it on the countertop, thumbed dried soap from its rim, and fetched a pouch of Thirium 310 from the fridge. Something told him Connor needed it.

“You were at CyberLife a while,” he called over his shoulder. Connor answered in the form of a grunt, busy overturning couch cushions in the next room. Hank chuckled to himself. He uncapped the pouch of blue blood, and poured his agitated partner a drink. “Get yourself anything nice?”

Connor paused, his hair dishevelled where he knelt with both arms down the seams of the couch. He’d found half a dozen coins, snack wrappers, and ballpoint pens, but no key. It must’ve been somewhere on Belle Isle, then, or the taxi cab. Connor sank back on his calves, and tried not to feel too defeated. _Shit happens_ , Hank had said. He’d made a mistake, and that was okay. _No big deal_.

Once, mistakes meant being decommissioned – being dismantled and analysed so the next RK800 wouldn’t make the same error. Now, the worst-case scenario was having Hank laugh at him. Hardly a punishment, he thought. He liked Hank’s laugh.

“Just a small software upgrade,” Connor replied. He put the couch back together, a strange sense of quiet settling over him. “Nothing major. Markus and Simon also helped clear up a glitch in my wireless communication functions.”

Outside Connor’s range of vision, Hank voiced an “oh, neat” in response. Connor then heard him open and close the fridge again, followed by measured footfalls as he carried the filled mug to the kitchen table. They were pleasant sounds, peaceful and soothing. Connor shuttered his vision to let them in, his stress levels ticking down in increments.

In that moment, he decided not to share details about his fixed glitch. Hank would only fret, if made aware of what his partner had been through. It might even make Hank wary of him, which Connor did _not_ want. Unnecessary stress. Besides … it wasn’t like Amanda could cause problems in the future, anymore. She no longer posed a threat, and what the lieutenant didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Concerned by Connor’s stillness, Sumo rose from his blanket under the radiator. The big dog lumbered over between the couch and coffee table, claws clicking on the floorboards, and nudged a wet nose to Connor’s shin. The android snapped from his daze at once, and sat down to cup Sumo’s floppy jowls. Sumo licked at his fingers with enthusiasm, and all of Connor’s worries vanished. He couldn’t help but wrap the dog in a hug, buoyed by his affection and smell.

“Good boy, Sumo,” he murmured into a faceful of fur. “Would you like a treat?”

The Saint Bernard all but climbed into his lap, huge paws braced on Connor’s thighs while he assaulted the android’s cheeks with his tongue. Connor grinned wide, lips sealed to avoid a mouthful of slobber. He then scooped up the massive hound and stood, lifted him in an effortless fireman’s carry.

Sumo’s tail wagged as he surveyed the lounge from new heights. Hank never indulged him like this. A bounce in his step, Connor carried the seventy-seven kilo mass of fur across the room and into the kitchen. He made a beeline for the doggie cupboard under the sink, beaming as Sumo whined when he reached for the special biscuits.

Once he’d retrieved the packet, Connor glanced back to ask Hank how many treats Sumo could have. He found his partner stood frozen beside the dining table, and his smile evaporated.

Hank hadn’t sat down from pouring the mug of thirium, but towered stock-still over Connor’s usual chair. His face burned a blotchy, surprised pink – his stiff posture one of forced calm. In his left hand he held Connor’s blazer, its pockets turned inside-out, and in the right–

“I, uh….”

–the pamphlet.

Hank’s guilty eyes snapped up to meet Connor’s wide ones. “I wasn’t snoopin’, I swear.”

The goddamn pamphlet from North.

_Shit._

At a later date, Connor would swear his brain short-circuited. Something withered and died inside him, his entire world reduced to the images of white plastic genitalia that Hank held between them.

Panic. Pure, unadulterated panic. Connor felt like he’d been caught with his pants down – and in a way, he supposed he had. This was not how he wanted Hank to see him. His preconstruction software kicked in, stretching out precious seconds he could use to plot escape routes from the kitchen. What must Hank think of him, walking around with an advert like _that_ in his pocket? He didn’t even know why he’d held on to it. His instincts shrieked to defend himself, to shift the blame and recover his dignity while he stood rooted with a dog on his shoulder.

The mental timer marking his window to respond hit zero, and he blurted out the first excuse that came to him. “It’s for you.”

Hank blinked.

The withering sensation happened again. “N-no, I mean–!” Connor floundered. Sumo shuffled in his grip, sniffing placidly at the android’s collar. “North. She gave it to me. To give to you.”

Hank’s expression did the most bizarre thing, curling inwards as if he’d swallowed a lemon. “That’s not better.”

Before he could dig himself deeper, some form of autopilot took Connor over. He stooped and lowered Sumo to the floor, deaf to the dog’s bark as he tipped a few treats onto the floor. He then returned the packet to the cupboard and washed his hands in the sink, his breathing and blinking subroutines both offline.

He was going to add North’s number to every intrusive telemarketing list he could find.

For what it was worth, Hank also wanted to dig himself a nice little hole in the ground. He really hadn’t meant to snoop. He’d thought he would help Connor out, by searching his blazer for the lost key one last time. How was he supposed to know he’d find a fucking brochure of android _bits_ instead?

Oh, Jesus. Was _that_ the upgrade he got today?!

Still wringing the dishtowel in nervous fingers, Connor’s face was blank when he turned to look at his partner. Blank, but also – to Hank’s shock – _cherry red_. The highs of his cheekbones were flushed with colour, ears aflame where they protruded from his undercut. Ah, thought Hank, so this was Connor’s new upgrade. He swallowed his relief and didn’t comment, not wanting to embarrass the kid more than he already had.

Hank forced out a sigh. Best to bite the bullet and get it over with. “All right,” he said. “We’re both adults, here.”

“We are,” said Connor, thirium pump beating a mile a minute.

Hank nodded once, and laid the pamphlet facedown on the table next to the mug of blue blood. It seemed to take up more space than it should’ve, a daunting presence in the dull-lit room. “So, if you wanna talk about … _anything_ ,” he said, “we can. Maturely, like adults. With the addendum that either one of us can run screamin’ from the conversation at any time.”

Sumo crunched his biscuits in the corner, the loudest sound in the kitchen besides Hank’s powerful heartbeat. Connor remembered how to breathe with a start. He neatened where his shirt had come untucked, more anxious now than when Simon plugged him into CyberLife’s machine. “Are you sure?” he said. “My profile of your personality suggests that you will find a discussion of android anatomy … unfavourable.”

Against expectations, Hank chuckled. “I’m a homicide detective,” he said, and collected Connor’s full mug from the table. He raked stray hairs back off his forehead, more sympathetic than flustered now. The poor kid looked terrified, and Hank could understand why. “Pretty sure I’ll survive. And I know you always want my opinion on shit, so….”

He gestured through the lattice divider to the lounge, hoping a seat on the comfy couch would make their chat a bit easier. After three-point-three seconds of internal debate, Connor nodded. Hank grabbed a beer from the fridge and the two then left the kitchen, the android trailing behind. Hank set their drinks on the coffee table and threw himself into the sofa, where Connor perched on the opposite end.

Biscuits finished, Sumo followed his masters into the lounge. Once he realised no more treats were forthcoming, the great dog shambled to retake his throne under the radiator. Connor sat rigid until Hank turned on the TV for background noise. A soccer game washed the room in sweeping green light, nonsense cheers and commentary at a low enough volume to ignore.

From habit, Connor ran peripheral studies of the players’ attack patterns and strategies. He settled more comfortably in the mismatched cushions, smoothing the soft folded blanket draped over the back. Hank cracked his beer in a hiss of carbonation, and took a long draught while Connor relaxed.

This didn’t have to be painful.

Hank lowered his beer to his lap, his free arm slung over the back of the sofa. He looked his partner up and down, noted the whirling yellow LED. “So,” he said, a little gruff. “You wanna change your, uh … anatomy?”

Connor lowered his sightline, from the curved TV screen to the polished cabinet on which it stood. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. He doubled forward and claimed his mug from the coffee table, transferred it to his lap to mirror how Hank cradled his bottle. “Altering my hair is one thing, but modifying my chassis is another altogether.”

Hank tipped his head sagely. “But you’re thinkin’ about it,” he said.

Connor didn’t have a clear answer for that. “It would be a simple enough procedure,” he said, and squeezed his mug in both hands. The ceramic creaked under the pressure. “My biocomponents would need rearranging to accommodate anything internal, but that’s expected. I’m a prototype. I was built to be replaced, not customised.”

Hank frowned, and took another swig of beer. Sumo’s droopy ears pricked at the screech of a whistle from the TV, but he didn’t rouse.

Shuffling his shoes, Connor thumbed a scratch in the side of his mug. “The issue is more that I’m attached to my current appearance,” he said. “Of all the new features CyberLife is developing, I’m most excited for the artificial stomach and digestive system, and olfactory enhancements. Neither of those will change how I look. I’m comfortable with my present aesthetic, and am reluctant to change it.”

“Like how you didn’t wanna switch your hair colour?” said Hank.

For the first time since moving to the couch, Connor met his partner’s gaze. He couldn’t help but mimic Hank’s warm expression. Hank _understood_ , and that meant the world to the android. “Correct,” he said. “Human appearances aren’t fixed. You evolve constantly across your lifespan, so adjusting to physical changes comes natural to you. Androids aren’t like that. We’re built complete and are set in our appearance, unless we choose to alter it. I _like_ how I look. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t even consider such an … _overt_ modification.”

Worry straightened Hank from his slouch. He set down his beer on the floor, and withdrew his draped arm to sit up. “Normal circumstances?” he echoed. “Con, what … did somethin’ happen?”

Smiling, Connor looked away.

_What happened is that I fell in love with you, and I’d do anything to make you happy._

The words queued up but refused to exit his vocal modulator, leaving Connor with a sensation like vertigo at the edge of a cliff. Markus’s advice flashed through his head – his words of wisdom regarding honesty and time running out.

Now was the perfect moment to voice how he felt. A calm environment, familiar and easy, with Hank just tipsy enough to drop his barriers. Connor had his full attention, and they’d already crossed some sort of line tonight. Why not admit the whole truth, take that final plunge and confess?

If only it were that simple. Something kept stalling in his throat, a mental hurdle he couldn’t quite jump. The words were _right there_ but they felt too big for his mouth, huge and daunting.

Then again … Hank seemed afraid of them, too.

Connor’s feelings weren’t one-sided. He believed this with one hundred percent certainty. Hank looked at him with a fondness he showed no-one else, with warmth and arousal and affection deep enough to drown in. Connor didn’t know why Hank had been so hesitant to act on it. Politeness, maybe, or professionalism, perhaps some lingering qualm about human-android relationships. Whatever the reason, Connor didn’t want to wait anymore. Markus was right. Even with his state-of-the-art predictive software, there was no way to know when their dangerous jobs might rob them of tomorrow.

“Hey.”

A large, warm palm on his shoulder lured Connor from his thoughts. He blinked to find Hank watching him with concern, twisted close enough to peer into his soul. The hunch drew Hank’s T-shirt tight across his torso, so taut that Connor could see the dip of his belly button through the fabric. Without magnifying his vision, he could count the silvery hairs in Hank’s beard – could read his struggles and sorrows and laughter in every wise wrinkle of his face.

Hank was beautiful. Connor wanted to curl up against him, this brilliant man, use his plush as a pillow and nestle there until sunrise.

The lieutenant gave his partner’s shoulder a squeeze, troubled by his continued silence. Connor’s LED, to his bewilderment, glowed blue. “Hey,” Hank said again. With his free arm, he took the mug of thirium and returned it to the coffee table. “Talk to me. What’s goin’ on in those fancy processors of yours?”

With a sigh he didn’t need, Connor closed his eyes. The heat of Hank’s touch seeped through his shirt, a pleasant weight that made the synthskin beneath recede. The pressure in his thirium lines rose by three percent. He wanted Hank closer. Always closer.

Gently, he laid a hand over the back of Hank’s squeezing one. Connor then slid them both upwards, over his clavicle and collar, up the side of his bare neck and to the corner of his jaw. His dermal layer melted in the wake of Hank’s touch, carving a path of glossy plasteel through faux flesh.

Hank didn’t resist or pull back, but drew in a soft breath, his lips parted at the feel of exposed chassis. Connor guided Hank’s hand up, until its rough palm cupped his cheek. A perfect fit, like they were made for each other. Hank’s thumb came to rest on the line of Connor’s cheekbone, the android’s earlobe caressed between two coarse fingers.

Hank marvelled at the texture, too taken to question what was happening.

He’d never touched Connor’s face before. Not that he could remember, anyway, in the shock of the moment and the light fuzz of alcohol. His ear felt different than a human’s would, thought Hank; it wasn’t as malleable, grey and hard like die-cast plastic, but almost hot to the touch. Blue light edged the barrier where his dermal later stayed intact, where he still looked _like Connor_ , the illusion rippling and alive. The bare patch outlined the shape of Hank’s palm and fingers, cutting through Connor’s lip and the curve his nostril as if someone had splashed white paint on his cheek.

Surreal. So surreal. Hank felt the same electric current under his skin that he had on New Year’s Eve, when Connor had tried to interface with his nervous system. Right here, on the couch. Trying to link their minds, to share his thoughts and feelings across a digital connection. The first time, it happened because the android felt frail and vulnerable after a nightmare. Hank wasn’t even sure it had been voluntary. Now….

“Con,” Hank breathed. “What’re you doing…?”

Eyes still shut, Connor hummed – and just like that, the words fell into place.

“I’m trying to tell you that I love you.”

The TV flickered as the soccer game cut to a commercial break. Hank didn’t flinch, didn’t grumble and swipe up the remote to mute the adverts like he normally did. Instead … he sagged. Where he sat twisted on the couch, cradling Connor’s jaw, the tip of his thumb brushed by long, synthetic lashes … he just sagged. His shoulders sank and rounded, his spine bowed in a slump, and his elbow went slack where it had tensed during the manipulation of his arm.

“Connor …” he said. A familiar sense of emptiness swept through him – ugly, depressive thoughts. He felt tired, hollow, _grey_. “I’m….”

 _Old. Fat. Washed-up. Broken._ Connor’s eyes snapped open, then, unblinking and _sharp_ , as if he’d sensed Hank’s demons and was ready to challenge them the moment he gave them voice.

Hank licked his cracked lips. _We don’t think like that anymore_. He tried again, his mouth as dry as asphalt, pulse thudding dull somewhere far away. “I’m not … sure … I’m the best you can do.”

Connor inclined his head in thought. His expression was fixed, level, serious. “Maybe,” he said quietly. “But I don’t want the best, Hank. I want _you_.”

Connor paused. Something powerful thrummed inside him, urging him on, and he threw caution and calculations to the wind. Still without breaking visual contact, he nuzzled into his partner’s palm. Hank’s fingers tensed at the friction, breath catching in his throat.

“And there is a ninety-six-point-eight percent probability that you want me, too.”

An eerie numbness shrouded Hank like a mantle. He was dreaming. Had to be. He felt somehow disconnected from his body as he held Connor’s sure stare, the confusion and awe that brewed within him more a stifled echo than immediate emotions. There was no way this perfect being could return the feelings of a lonely old man. No way he _should_. Hank was drunk, projecting. This couldn’t be real.

Except, the firmness of Connor’s cheek under his palm told him it _was_. Somehow, Connor was real.

Connor shifted on the sofa, folded his legs beneath himself to sit upon his calves. He took Hank’s free hand in the motion, and pressed it to his own chest. Right over his thirium pump, hard enough for Hank to feel its rhythm through layers of wires and polymers and metal. Again, Hank let him. He didn’t know what else to do, how to react to the painful spark of _hope_ in his gut.

“You mean everything to me,” Connor told him.

His words rang so fucking earnest in the dingy lounge, urgent but sincere over nonsense TV noise. Hank ducked his head, his airways scratchy with sudden heat. His skin prickled, fingers folding in atop Connor’s sternum. The assurance terrified him, in a way he couldn’t explain.

Connor leaned closer. “I don’t know what’s holding you back,” he said, “and I won’t demand that you tell me. I just … want you to know how I feel. I love you, Hank Anderson, _so much_. It’s okay if you’re not ready to say it back.”

The numbness cracked, and Hank choked out a sob.

He went easily when Connor pulled him in, grabbed fistfuls of Connor’s shirt as the android wrapped both arms around him and cradled the back of his head. Hank couldn’t breathe. He wanted to hug him too but was petrified he’d somehow crush Connor’s slim frame, as if he thought the android were made of paper. “I-I’m _scared_.”

Connor petted his unkempt hair with a low, soothing noise. It ached to watch Hank crumble, more-so to know _he’d_ caused it. The dermal layer over Connor’s cheek reformed, an automatic process he failed to notice amid the knots of emotion. “Of what?”

Hank mashed his face harder into Connor’s shoulder. He smelled like home, of laundry detergent and ozone and Sumo. “I-I dunno,” he bit out. He fought back tears, far too hot in his ratty T-shirt as his body flushed with shame. The air tasted stale, gulped down too fast. “I … I lost Cole. My wife. I don’t … I c-can’t do that again. I _won’t_.”

Connor held him tighter, rocked with him on the edge of the couch. Of course. Hank had a family, once, people he loved – and he’d lost them. His son, stolen away, and his wife, abandoning him when he’d needed her most. Of course the thought of exposing himself to that grief again would frighten Hank. Connor smiled sadly up at the ceiling, at the cracks in the plaster he hadn’t gotten around to fixing yet.

“I can’t promise that you won’t have to,” he said softly. “But … you only have one life, Hank. You should spend it _happy_ , in the moment, doing what you want … not isolating yourself for fear of getting hurt again.”

Maybe saying that made Connor a hypocrite, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was Hank, healthy and whole. He didn’t want him to suffer anymore, to be alone.

In his arms, Hank shifted. Connor loosened his grip, allowed the man to pull out of his embrace. To Connor’s surprise – and perplexity – Hank’s teary, wobbly expression held some degree of … amusement? Irony?

Head bowed, Hank scrubbed away his tears. “Did you just fuckin’ ‘ _YOLO_ ’ at me?” he sniffed.

Connor blinked. After brief online research to understand the acronym, he laughed and reeled his partner in again.

This time, Hank hugged him back.

They crashed together on the couch, breathless and relieved and desperate for contact all at once. At the display, Sumo propelled himself from under the radiator – so fast that he creased the rug and knocked into the coffee table. Thirium slopped from Connor’s undrunk mug. Sumo all but assaulted the sofa, reared up and trampled his masters’ laps in his enthusiasm to join the embrace. Hank spread an arm with a snort and Sumo hauled himself onto the couch, worming his lick-happy way into the heart of the cuddle. Connor and Hank both petted him roughly, still wrapped in each other’s limbs around the pooch.

The look they shared over his shaggy head spoke volumes.

The trio stayed like that for some time, long after the soccer match ended and Sumo fell asleep across the tangle of his masters’ legs. It was a snug fit: the partners had slid down gradually, Hank supine with his head propped on the armrest and Connor curled atop him. Connor’s ear rested over Hank’s heart, monitoring its steady beat while he traced numbers into Hank’s shirt. The lieutenant lay with one arm hooked around Connor’s narrow frame, idly finger-combing through his dark curls.

Connor could have lain there forever. He measured the give of Hank’s clothed flesh beneath his sensors, the semi-firmness of organic muscle and fat, so unlike his own body. The warmth, the sounds. Tiny gurgles and murmurs as Hank’s organs worked away inside him, the expansion of his lungs and the chemical composition of his sweat. Connor wiggled deeper, buried his nose in the dip between Hank’s pectorals.

“Are we okay?” he asked.

Hank drew in a long, deep breath. Connor rode the movement of his ribcage in silence, LED flickering with apprehension. Hank then tightened his grip of him, and his other hand came up to rest heavy on Connor’s hip.

“Yeah,” he murmured. The word ruffled Connor’s hair, gruff and coarse, barely audible over the current batch of TV ads. Hank cracked open his eyes. They stung, still a little puffy from crying. He squinted up at the play of coloured light on the walls. “Con, I can’t … I can’t promise anything. You get that, right?”

Connor lifted his head from Hank’s chest, just enough to meet his gaze. Otherwise he stayed nestled where he was, squinty and languid, like a tousle-haired _dream_ refusing to get out of bed.

Fuck, who gave CyberLife the right? Hank groaned in his throat. He hiked himself up the sofa a fraction, tried to pull himself together. Connor didn’t budge, and neither did Sumo. Christ, these two were gonna be the death of him.

“Listen,” he grit out. He hated feeling so vulnerable. “I … the whole idea. It’s scary for me. I’ve been married and divorced, and my son … Con, you’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. I don’t wanna fuck that up. I don’t wanna get closer to you and then lose _you_ , too. I _can’t_.”

Connor shifted. He rolled to wedge an elbow under Hank’s armpit, and raised himself on it to look at Hank head-on. He nodded but said nothing, afraid he’d shatter the moment.

“But …” said Hank. He swallowed hard. “I wanna try. Jesus, I … I _miss_ you, even though you’re right fuckin’ there. It’s stupid….”

“No, it’s not stupid,” Connor intervened. He crawled higher up Hank’s body, and flattened himself atop him so they lay almost nose-to-nose. He smiled, eyes flicking between Hank’s like a pendulum. “I know exactly what you mean.”

Abruptly, Hank sat up. The movement jostled Sumo awake, and the disgruntled dog slid down to go lie in his usual spot.

Hank kept Connor close as he rose, moved in such a way that the android wound up seated in his lap with those long legs framing Hank’s sides. The kid was heavier than he looked, but Hank liked that. Weird, but in a good way – Connor’s unique brand of attractive. Connor’s arms found a home around Hank’s shoulders, their stomachs pressed together as he wound a lock of Hank’s hair through dextrous fingers. Reassured, Hank took a moment to trace constellations in his partner’s moles and beauty marks. He found every one of them so lovely; at the corner of his mouth, on the bridge of his nose, handsome shapes sprinkled over smooth, flawless skin. Whatever bastard decided to give androids _pores_ deserved a fucking medal.

Sudden courage urged the lieutenant forward. He nudged Connor’s nose with his own, forehead tickled by stray curls as the android gripped the back of his T-shirt. Connor’s bright stare flicked down to Hank’s lips and back up almost at once, asking permission without words.

Hank nodded once, and Connor leaned in.

For Hank, it wasn’t mind-blowing. He’d kissed people before. He’d kissed _Connor_ before, on his temple after a panic attack. He’d also felt Connor’s mouth peck his cheek on Christmas day, so putting those sensations together left him only a little winded.

But for Connor, the experience was–

Extraordinary. Singular. Astonishing. _Overwhelming_.

His investigative subroutines booted automatically. Analysis fluid filled his mouth, spilled from one corner as he gasped at the heat. Hank’s tongue breached his open lips by accident. _DNA sample: ANDERSON, HANK. Blood alcohol content: 0.05g/100ml. Lysozyme, opiorphin, various electrolytes and enzymes. Traces of acrylamide, sugar, citric acid._

Connor clawed at Hank’s shirt, systems lagging from the influx of data. His tongue was his most delicate biocomponent, and the rough texture of Hank’s sliding against it almost caused a soft-reboot of his mind palace. It felt _so good_ , better than he’d dreamed. Connor fumbled to lower his sensitivity, enough to think straight and return the kiss. Uncoordinated, he threw himself forward with more strength than he meant to. A startled Hank flumped back into the cushions and Connor pinned him there, attacking the lieutenant’s mouth for all he was worth. No restraint, fuelled by pleasure.

He’d thought about this for so long.

After thirty frantic, blissful, _hungry_ seconds, Hank had to pry the android away so he could breathe. He gaped up at Connor in wonder, spread-eagled beneath him, and watched his brown eyes widen at the tracks of oral lubricant on Hank’s beard and chin. Connor covered his own mouth in shock – unaware his skin had faded there – that new flush surging forth to darken his cheeks.

“I-I’m sorry–!” Connor stammered. He wiped Hank’s face dry with the cuff of his sleeve, flustered by his own loss of control. “I’ll … I’ll disable my analysis function next time. I’m so sorry, I promise it’s sanitary.”

Dazed, Hank propped himself up on his elbows. “It’s … fine,” he said. He couldn’t remember how to blink, sprawled on the sofa as if he’d been tossed there like a sack of potatoes. Connor was a glorious mess above him, straddling Hank’s thighs, his shirt rumpled again and hair all askew. The white of his mouth seemed to glow in the low light from the TV, LED spinning yellow. Hank tried a smirk. “Do the holes in your face mean you liked it?”

Uncomprehending, Connor stared. He ran a quick diagnostic, then gave a start when he realised the chassis of his jaw was exposed. Embarrassed, he apologised and hurried to correct the error.

As his dermal layer began to reform, Hank shifted onto one elbow and reached out. He cupped Connor’s chin in his palm, his touch halting the process. Connor hesitated, his lips still naked, and peered into Hank’s sudden frown.

“It’s _okay_ ,” Hank repeated, more confident than the first time. “I know you’re an android, Con. I don’t mind if you look like one.”

Connor shrank in on himself, but didn’t pull away. “I do.”

Hank’s frown deepened. With a dissatisfied noise, he wriggled to sit up again. The android moved to make room, curious when Hank snagged one of Connor’s hands in both of his own and raised it between their chests. Pointedly, Hank gave it a squeeze.

“Can you turn your skin off here?” he said. “I’ve seen it before. Please?”

Connor studied him, the kind honesty in the lines of his face. With some reluctance, he obeyed.

As the dermal layer of Connor’s fingers receded from glossy plasteel, Hank guided them toward his mouth. Gentle as a mouse, he kissed the knuckle of Connor’s index finger. The android locked up, shocked into still silence. Hank’s coarse moustache scratched and rasped like bristles on his bare chassis, the sensation magnified by a lack of protective membrane. Hank’s chapped lips moved on to brush the middle knuckle, then the ring, and Connor’s fingers curled around his when he reached the pinkie.

The input was delicious, stimulating. Heat built in Connor’s wires, his thirium pump picking up speed. On a whim, he let his skin fade higher than his wrist. It disappeared up under his long sleeve, and Hank rolled back the cuff to slowly chase it with his mouth. Connor’s cosmetic breaths faltered, then ceased altogether.

Showing Markus and Simon his ‘true’ body had been difficult, even though they were both androids themselves. It had been necessary, for repairs. This was different. This was Hank, telling Connor that he accepted him. Telling Connor he didn’t care what he looked like, or how much they were different.

Connor felt something light up inside him, something that made the idea of a genital installation very appealing after all.

He seized Hank about the jaw, bare fingertips singing with tactile input. Hank froze, cheeks squashed as his partner kissed him hard on the mouth. Before he could reciprocate, Connor pulled back. He exhaled directly in Hank’s face, and Hank shivered at the heat of it.

Connor watched the human’s pupils dilate, detected a rise in his body temperature and pulse. Arousal, clear as day. Connor didn’t know where Hank would draw the line, but he was eager to explore their new reality. “Would you like to touch me, Hank?”

The lieutenant gulped. Holy _fuck_. He pinched his own thigh to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, and managed a tiny nod.

“Hell yeah, I would.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay on this one! Life's been crazy, and I wanted to get this chapter right. It just kept growing, sometimes in ways I didn't expect. But! We're here now, and this slow burn is finally heating up.
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/toastycyborg)


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